


Hibernating with Ghosts

by Fayet



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: #TeamEskel, And a little bit of Horror, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Traits, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical bathing, Complete, Crack and Angst, Drinking, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love, Gen, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Mystery, Slow Burn, Sweet Melitele be with us, Various monsters - Freeform, Violence, World Building Galore, long chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 183,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23119000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayet/pseuds/Fayet
Summary: Getting stuck in Kaedwen in winter had never been on Jaskier's plan. It's cold, they don't appreciate his music and nobody likes their national beverage anyway. The only redeeming thing Kaedwen has is Kaer Morhen, so Jaskier does what any reasonable bard would do in this situation: he decides to charm his way into Kaer Morhen to hibernate with Geralt and the other witchers. If nothing it will be an experience no human has ever had, fuel for songs and poems for years to come, while finally teaching him a thing or two about witchers he's just dying to know.Curiosity tended to kill the cat, but Jasker had always seen himself as more of a bird anyway.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Other(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1692
Kudos: 2744
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, All Time Favourites, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. I'm not your fault /

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here's the thing: I try not get sucked into new fandoms. And yet here we are. 
> 
> I'm taking a pretty liberal approach to canon whenever I write, and I'm not much of a gamer. This is built on book lore as far as I've gotten with reading them, some game lore and show lore, all nicely mixed together with general folk lore. One liberal change I made from show lore is that I wanted Geralt to be at least slightly more eloquent than he is in the show - he's quite talkative in the books and far more sociable, and I like it that way. So he will be talking in this, and not just humming and cursing. I also like Eskel, and we need more Eskel-content on here. I mean, it's canon that Eskel and Geralt hug when they meet after having been apart for a long time (Blood of Elves, in case you're wondering.)
> 
> There's also going to be an equal amount of angst and fluff in here, and it will go back and forth between both. Parts will be very fluffy "found family"-style, because witchers deserve good things, and then, well.. I'm an angst writer at heart. I'll also let you know that I'm not writing heavily sexually explicit scenes, because I'm not good at it. Any archive warnings come from the angst, and just to make things clear: there will be actual, proper and dark angst. Please take notes of the tags above - there will be violence, injury, blood and gore and some elements of horror. Proceed with caution if that is a problem for you. 
> 
> The indeed lovely LovelyRita1967 went through this fic for me and looked for typos. I've tried my best to deal with those, but some may remain. I'm still regularly trying to do "fic maintenance" on this, but things may still slip through the cracks. In case you find typos or any other mistakes I appreciate a hint in the comments.
> 
> As of June 2020 this fic is complete.
> 
> 01/2021: Now there's a completely illustrated version online! Look [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28961985) for Saeculorum's masterpiece.

On the third day he couldn't stand the porridge anymore, not even with the addition of those lovely cherries preserved in more alcohol than was reasonable. They didn't do much to help anymore. He was done with it, over it, fed up. Done with the porridge and wooden bowl, done with the strange glances from everyone, done with being stranded in this damn village in the middle-of-fucking-nowhere, where they didn't like music or had any sense for delicate pleasures. He didn't want to spend another night in the tiny, cold bed, with the wind howling outside and godless noises coming from the forest. Enough was enough, and even a bard with a chipper constitution like Jaskier had could only take so much. He threw his spoon down with conviction, glaring daggers at the worn-out table top for a minute and then exhaling with frustration. 

The problem was that he wasn't quite in a position to change much about his whereabouts right now. Well, not outright at least. It wasn't for the lack of trying - oh no, he tried! Had tried. Would try. It was just that he was stuck here, in late autumn at the wrong edge of the world, in bloody freezing Kaedwen, with nowhere to go and a lot of nothing to do when he got there. 

It wasn't his fault that they had kicked him out of Aedirn. And the Pontar Valley. And Aedd Gynvael. And Ard Carraigh. Which meant that practically every major city in this part of the continent was closed to him, and only because of one pretty blonde lady and a very jealous king with lots of allies who weren't quite ready to get their knickers in a twist over a good bard, no matter how dire long winter nights could become without entertainment. Which of course was much less terrible than long winter nights could be if one was a bard without a court to winter at, without a tavern to take up permanent residency to earn coin and a warm bed and no prospects of anything else coming into view anytime soon. 

Jaskier wasn't exactly prissy, his silks and lace being nothing but a guise. His best kept secret, his nobility by birth, had also come with a few perks. Having the education of a nobleman, for once, which included not only languages and dancing, but of course the use of a few weapons. Jaskier was handy with a bow, not too shabby with a sword, quick with a dagger. Not on the level a witcher like Geralt was, not even like a soldier or a mercenary would be. But still his skills came in handy, the dagger in his boots having saved him more than once. 

Being a travelling bard wasn't a job for the squeamish, the continent being no place for dainty flowers. Nobody could survive on these roads without knowing a thing or two about violence, tactics, how to smell danger and either avoid it or run towards it and later turn it into poetry. He could walk for months without complaining, set up camp in the woods and make do, catch his own food and skin it if push came to shove. He'd rather not, thankyouverymuch, but if he had to? His fingers were calloused from the lute anyway, and he knew how to wash blood out of every fabric that had ever existed, no matter what type of blood. Or guts. 

But winter in Kaedwen was a different beast. Heck, Kaedwen itself was a different beast, the people living on the banks of the Gwenllech very different from those in Aedirn or Temeria. This high up north people had hardened up, learnt how to deal with having nothing, toil on the poor soil and still make a living. They tried to keep the crops coming in, dealing with the harsh seasons, while avoiding being eaten by anything that might come down from the mountains at night. Kaedwen wasn't a country of courts but of farms and stables, of huts dotted around the slopes of the Blue Mountains, of the castle of Ban Ard and the fortress of Kaer Morhen. Hard people lived here, peasants and soldiers, sorcerers and witchers. Bards, as Jaskier had already learnt, weren't quite high in demand. At least people were too poor to throw vegetables at him and too tired to pick up the stones from the ground, which was a slight blessing. 

So he was stuck in Kaedwen, and that could have been a disaster if he hadn't known somebody else who willingly got himself stuck in Kaedwen every winter, and owed Jaskier a favour or two anyway. This late in the year travelling was harsh and uncomfortable, and Jaskier knew his witcher well. So when it had become obvious that the roads to Aedirn and the Pontar Valley would be closed Jaskier had turned towards the mountains, going against the flow of those trying to find warmer areas to survive what was bound to become a very cold winter. He had taken his horse on the ferry all the way from the estuary of the Gwenllech towards the feet of the Blue Mountains and now he was here, sitting, waiting. 

He was here because it was this dirty mess of a village that sat at the entrance of the path up to Kaer Morhen, the closest point to the fortress humans dared to venture ever since they had laid siege to the castle and burnt it half-way down, bringing death and destruction. They had retreated into the valleys afterwards again, and nobody had been to Kaer Morhen for decades or even remembered the way up there. Nobody who wasn't a witcher anyway, which was why Jaskier was waiting for a witcher. Preferably Geralt, but really, at this point in time any witcher who wouldn't stick his steel sword right into Jaskier's chest would do. 

It was a risky game to play. Jaskier had no idea how Geralt would react towards the news that his on-and-off travel companion-and-favourite-bard had decided to spent the winter at Kaer Morhen - uninvited, of course. The only thing Jaskier knew for sure was that Geralt would be at Kaer Morhen this winter, and he had it from the witcher himself. When they had met in early spring the same year it had been at the other end of the continent. They had stumbled across each other in the strange way they usually crossed ways - unintended, without any pretext, simply by accident or chance. It was always the same: Jaskier would turn around on the road and there was Geralt with Roach tagging along, or Jaskier would slink into a tavern and there was the unmistakable sight of white hair falling over a dark cloak hidden somewhere in an unobtrusive corner. 

They had both never questioned what actually brought them together, why fate had decided to intertwine their roads like this again and again, on a continent this large with this many places where they could easily never see each other again. This time they had met again naked, in an ancient bathhouse where Jaskier had gone to find company and Geralt to find cleanliness, and they had stumbled over each other in the steam room and been half-way delighted and half-way mortified. Jaskier didn't get his company that night, his latest conquest leaving in a huff after it turned out that Jaskier’s attention was for the moment occupied by another man with a physique that was rather difficult to match for a human, no matter how worse for wear the witcher appeared. At least Geralt got the soak he was in desperate need of, and Jaskier not only vividly remembered forcing Geralt to let him cut his hair at least a little - the white mop having turned into a terrifying mess of tangles nothing could undo anymore - but also how Geralt had obviously spent the entire winter travelling and it showed. Hunger didn't look good on anyone, and Geralt was no exception to the rule. 

Winters in Kaer Morhen might be harsh, but they weren't hunger winters, and Jaskier knew that Geralt wasn't again going to force himself to remain on the road for another year when he could possibly return to what for all purposes was still his home for a few month of rest. So when Jaskier got stuck in Kaedwen he had been reasonably sure that Geralt was going to be somewhere in the vicinity on his way to Kaer Morhen, and that there had to be an empty room in the large fortress where a bard could hide for a few month. He was willing to chip in, even. High-class entertainment wasn't cheap these days, and he knew enough songs to entertain an entire army for a few weeks - it should do for a couple of witchers. 

So he had ended up in the village, set up camp in the Black Unicorn - how inspired, naming a tavern after the country's coat of arms! - and had inquired if any witchers had passed through recently. To his immediate horror a particular one had. Two days before Jaskier's arrival the White Wolf had ridden through the village and disappeared into the forest, and the barmaid had been subtly surprised when Jaskier needed to have a sit down on one of the barstools after realising that he was too late. 

The woman had looked at him with a hint of pity and then saved his life with the surprising information that apparently the witchers came into the village at surprising frequency at this time of the year, preparing for a winter that required stockpiling for various goods that couldn't be hunted in the woods surrounding the fortress. She had also heard - from the blacksmith, who had apparently close connections to the miller whose wife ran the only shop in town that dealt with larger quantities of food in an area where the soil wasn't quite rich and bountiful - that apparently someone would come down soon to pick up a rather large order of provisions. 

It brightened Jaskier's mood immediately, and he set himself up in the tavern with the firm intention to wait for whoever would come crawling down from the mountains and then, well, trust his considerable charm and grace.

And now three days had passed without any witcher in sight. Only the weather had gotten worse, the first flurry of snowflakes falling outside, dotting the ground and muffling the sounds of the constant winds and the gurgling river. And the howls coming from the forest, an unholy cacophony of sounds that seemed to echo right through the wooden walls of the inn every night, reminding him why the inhabitants of this lonely place were very reluctant to go even near the woods. Creatures of every type and upbringing seemed to roam there, not only wolves but also wargs and the odd harpie. Everybody told Jaskier to keep away from the forest and complained about the numbers of the monsters steadily rising, and nobody seemed to make the connection that maybe burning down Kaer Morhen and killing those who actually tasked themselves with keeping the woods safe and clean could have something to do with it. 

Giving up on his porridge for good Jaskier leant back against the wall behind his bench and sighed dramatically, drawing the attention of the barmaid who sauntered closer to pick up his used dishes. 

"What is it, Bard? Your face is as dark as the day outside."

Jaskier sighed again, elegantly waving a hand through the air and pointing into the general direction of the window. 

"The wind, fair lady, is driving me insane. And the howls at night, how do you sleep?"

She smiled at his exaggerated tone and the compliment, softly shaking her head. They weren't used to colourful birds like Jaskier in these corners of the continent, but she always seemed mildly amused at his antics unlike her fellow villagepeople who were suspicious at best and annoyed at worst. They hadn’t tried to tie him to a stake to burn him alive yet, which was something Jaskier knew could happen easily in remote corners of the continent - Geralt had the scars to prove it - and which somehow helped to endear Jaskier to the place at least a little bit.

"Better to hear them from the distance than to watch their eyes gleam in the moonlight. My father got killed by a couple of wargs a few years ago, it was terrible." 

She leant a bit closer, an unnecessary gesture of confidentiality in a completely empty tavern room. 

"Eleana told me that her mother said the witchers would be coming down from the forest tomorrow to collect their final orders for the winter."

Perking up immediately Jaskier leant in, too. 

"Now that is what I call good news!" 

One more night, then. He could do one more night, howls and all. The barmaid looked surprised at the sudden happiness in his face and shook her head. Straightening up she collected his dirty dishes and the pot with the cherries. 

"I don't know what it is about those witchers that makes you so eager to meet them. We see them here all the time, but we don't mingle. And you want to travel to Kaer Morhen?"

She shuddered at the name, turning around without waiting for his answer, and for a moment Jaskier wondered if her family had been involved in the siege. He knew almost nothing of the battle waged at the fortress not too many decades ago, or at least nothing that didn't come from general knowledge and the few tales scattered about. He had tried to ask Geralt, but had immediately realised that he was poking at wounds that weren't properly healed and decided to drop the topic in an unusual display of tact. He could only assume that Geralt had known those who had fought and died, even if he hadn’t been involved himself.

And it had been the siege on Kaer Morhen that had brought an end to what had been an ancient and proud tradition, and those members of the School of the Wolf that remained had to know that they were the final representatives of what essentially was a dying species. It was maybe also this fact that had made Jaskier curious - of the fortress and her inhabitants, of what exactly this tradition meant beyond what Geralt embodied. He hadn't gotten himself stuck in Kaedwen on purpose, but if things worked out the way he wanted them to he'd come away from this winter with an experience no human had ever had. Curiosity tended to kill the cat, but Jasker had always seen himself as more of a bird anyway. 

So he smiled as brightly as possible at the retreating back of the barmaid, and then spent the day trying to make the hours pass as quickly as possible. He strolled through the village, freezing in his thin cloak in the frigid air, watching the snowflakes gather on roofs and trees. Talking to people he enquired here and there if the rumours from the tavern were true, and everywhere heard the same: the witchers were due tomorrow, and the village was already weary of their appearance. 

Daylight hours were short this far up north, but this day seemed to refuse to pass at all. The hours seemed endless, no matter how many strolls around the village Jaskier took, how long he remained on the banks of the Gwenllech watching the waters freeze over slowly, schools of Red Eye fish flittering under the thin layers of translucent cold on the water's edge. He visited his horse Biel in the stable, the white gelding a wonderful gift from a certain Lady in Aedirn before things had turned cold. Biel was a good horse, calm and useful, and Jaskier made sure he was well-fed and carefully brushed, lessons he had learnt from Geralt's legendary horse-care. Humming under his breath he ran the brushes over the soft fur, listening to the horse snort and stomp. In the evening he took a hot bath, rubbed almond oil into his hands and then retired. There was no point in trying to play for the tavern's patrons - and he knew, because he had tried. Multiple times.

So he went to bed early, trying to ignore the howls in the woods, slightly worrying about the next day and finally falling asleep to the eternal wind trying to take the roof of the tavern off. 

The next morning was just as cold as the night had been, but Jaskier refused himself the comfort of remaining in the at least slightly warm bed. It made sense for him to be awake so he could make sure he wouldn't miss whoever would come down from Kaer Morhen, and he needed to be dressed and awake for that. He was reasonably sure that everybody in the village knew that he was waiting for the witchers and that somebody would tell them about him, but he couldn't risk anything right now, not when the worst case scenario could mean that he'd be stuck in this cold tavern for the next month. 

So he slipped out of bed, dressed quickly in everything he owned for added warmth and stumbled down the stairs. It was dreadfully early, the tap room being completely empty and silent. Only the barmaid stood behind the counter, filling a tankard with hot cider from the pot she permanently kept on the stove to offer her customers the regional speciality that Jaskier had already tried and detested. 

"Good morning, my Lady, what a beautiful day!"

His cheerfulness sounded fake even to his ears, but from what he could see the sun was at least somewhat visible outside, so it wasn't the worst day of the past month. But the barmaid only cleared her throat, raised an eyebrow and motioned towards the left side of the room with her head. The question what she was trying to tell him on his lips Jaskier looked around in the direction she had gestured at. Then he saw the witcher. 

There was no mistaking the man for anything else. He sat at the outermost corner of the room, back to the wall, occupying the table with the perfect vantage point over the room, easily observing everything that moved in the tavern. Leaning next to him on the wall were two swords neatly wrapped in dark leather, close but still safely stored away, present but not a constant threat. He sat relaxed, his elbows on the table, looking at Jaskier with the same curious expression and scrutiny the bard was directing his way.

The problem was just that it wasn't Geralt, and that it was too late for Jaskier to retreat in any way. So he waited until the barmaid had filled two tankards with hot cider and smiled at her, picked them both up and sauntered over to the table. Without asking for permission he sat down, slid one tankard towards the unknown Witcher and held up his own. 

"Good morning. This seat taken?"

For a second he savoured the flashback to his first meeting with Geralt in that lousy tavern, and half-expected the witcher to immediately prepare to leave. To his surprise all he received was an amused look out of amber eyes that looked hauntingly familiar in the stranger's face and a smile tugging at the corner of thin lips. Then the witcher picked up the tankard. 

"Seems to be yours now. Good morning."

Jaskier nearly dropped his cider and could just so control his mouth from gaping. Then he took the chance to stare at his vis-à-vis properly. He had to admit that he had spent so much time with Geralt that he had somehow expected all witchers to look at least slightly alike, nevermind the fact that he knew that was wrong. Geralt had told him that witchers all came from different backgrounds with a different genetic makeup that was somewhat similar after the mutations, but still in its core unique. Jaskier had expected that different schools could have a slight resemblance and Geralt hadn't denied this. Now Jaskier knew why, because this witcher was obviously a member of the School of the Wolf, and Jaskier didn't need to look at the medallion around his neck to know that.

There were other telltale signs - his strong build, the way he tilted his head ever so slightly, the amber eyes that looked so much like Geralt's. Yet there were differences of all sorts. This witcher was dressed not in dark shades of black and grey but in dark browns and reds, his armour cut slightly different, leather straps a polished brown. His hair was dark and short, and whatever expression his face might have had was dreadfully obscured by the most terrible scar Jaskier had ever seen on any living being, a circular cut that had been sliced deep into his face, an injury nobody should have survived and somehow, apparently, this witcher had survived. It immediately made Jaskier hungry for the story behind it, for the tragic and probably terrifying heroic exploits that marked a man like this, just like he had pestered Geralt without end to disclose the events behind the scars littering his body. 

But there was no time for Jaskier to dwell on his sudden rush of inspiration, because there was another fundamental difference between Geralt and this witcher: he seemed to be able to speak in social settings. 

"So you're the bard."

His voice was different, too, less gravelly than Geralt's husky baritone, more melodic. And there was that smile tugging at the end of his thin lips, genuine curiosity of somebody who could afford to be curious, who knew his own power well and had nothing to worry about. He seemed relaxed, much more than Geralt ever was, less on edge and worried about human contact. It caught Jaskier by surprise. 

"The bard! Well, yes, maybe I am the bard, although I always thought of myself as a bard, but now that you're saying it - "

But the witcher interrupted him, still looking perfectly at ease and not as if he was hatching a plan on how to escape as quickly as possible or kill Jaskier elegantly and fast. 

"What I meant was that you're the bard who wrote that terrible song. The one they sing in taverns now, about Geralt of Rivia. You're Jaskier."

He hadn't quite expected to be that famous, but oh well. Fame was fickle, and maybe it was a good thing if his fame could help him to convince this witcher that having him at Kaer Morhen would be a good idea, beneficial for all. 

"Indeed, that is my name. And it's my song, a bit famous that one, well, it was quite an adventure - "

This time the barmaid interrupted him, setting down a tray with breakfast for the witcher - sausages and bread - and the bowl of porridge for Jaskier. She nudged the cherry pot in his direction and returned to her counter, but not without shooting Jaskier a look that told him that she was listening to their conversation and was embarrassed on his behalf for his fumbling around. 

The witcher, in the meantime, seemed to be delighted to see breakfast materialising. He picked up the cutlery and, just before starting to dissect his sausage, shot Jaskier an inquisitive glance. 

"You asked around to find out if we'd come down from the woods, didn't you?"

Caught in the questioning stare Jaskier had to clear his throat. 

"Well, yes - I was waiting for you."

Nodding the witcher hummed in an affirmative way, seemingly completely at ease with that particular piece of information. He started to take the sausage apart with the attention a seasoned hunter would dedicate to his dead prey, and continued the conversation without looking at Jaskier. 

"And why does Jaskier the Bard enquire after a witcher? Any beasts to slay?"

Laughing nervously Jaskier poked his spoon into the bowl of porridge and quickly tried to ponder his options. The truth? Now? Imprudent.

"Only the winter cold, I'm afraid."

The Witcher nodded between a mouthful of sausage and a bite of bread, and proceeded to polish off his breakfast with surprising speed. It gave Jaskier the time to focus on his porridge, this time being careful with the cherries lest he be too tipsy to negotiate his passage to Kaer Morhen with this as-of-yet-still-nameless witcher. 

Then they both were done, pushing away plates and bowls and the Witcher settled back against the wooden wall with his tankard. 

"Winter is a rightful beast here, you are right. It can last for month, very cold. Lots of snow."

Jaskier nodded, wondering how he could get to the topic he desperately needed to arrive at really soon.

"And how long are you staying?"

Somehow the witcher seemed amused, and Jaskier had no idea why. 

"Just for a few hours. A good breakfast and we'll pick up our provisions and be on our way."

He watched Jaskier as if he was looking for clues to solve a particular bard-shaped problem, and it got more and more difficult not to fidget under the gaze. 

"Ahem, yes, so." Then he picked up on what the witcher had exactly said. "Wait, you're not alone?" 

Sudden hope flare up in him, and he tried hard not to project it all out into the room, something he knew he was bad at. Jaskier could be sneaky but not subtle, his emotions usually spreading around like an earthquake. It didn't work this time, either. The witcher took his time to answer, sipping on his cider a few times before lowering the tankard. The smile was back on his face, tugging on dry lips flaking from the harsh weather. Then he made a motion with his head pointing towards the floor and Jaskier craned his neck. He couldn't see much but the gleam of a sword half tucked under the bench caught his eye quickly. Wrapped in black leather, neatly tied up, obviously well cared for. Silver and oh so very familiar. 

He didn't know why he blushed. There was no need at all for his blood to suddenly bloom under the skin of his cheeks, but it did, and witchers be damned for their little games. For a second Jaskier was incredibly relieved and at the same time mortified, not knowing where to look and what to say. 

But he didn't have to, because the most impossible thing happened. The witcher sitting opposite of him watched him like a hawk, put his tankard down, tipped his head back and dissolved into laughter. It wasn't mean spirited, on the contrary. But Jaskier hadn't even known witchers were physically capable of fits of laughter, not when the most he ever got from Geralt was a grin or a smirk. But this witcher could laugh and did, needing a minute to get himself together again. Then he leant forward, elbows on the table again, amber eyes sparkling with mirth. 

"You look horrified, Bard. I hope you didn't expect us all to be as taciturn and melancholic as the White Wolf."

Stunned Jaskier stared, not knowing what to say. Then the amber eyes focused on the space behind him, and the witcher leant back again, obviously enjoying the situation. 

"Speaking of the devil. This will be excellent."

He seemed short of rubbing his hands together, and Jasker had no idea what he meant until his human hearing noticed the sound of the door to the tavern open and soft footsteps enter. Frantically he wondered if he was still flushed, knowing fully well that there was nothing he could do about it now. He sat with his back to the door, and so he had to wait until the footsteps came closer and Geralt appeared in his field of vision, looking like always, black-armoured, sword-on-the-back, black cloak wrapped around his shoulders. There were snowflakes in the dark fur of his cloak and barely visible in his white hair, already melting. He looked as if the cold didn't bother him, and very, very confused. 

"Jaskier?"

The still nameless witcher grinned broadly, and moved to make space on the bench. Loosening the leather strap keeping his sword on his back Geralt slipped cloak and sword off, placed both carefully on the bench and sat down, all the while staring at Jaskier as if a ghost had appeared right before his eyes in the tavern. 

"Well, hello Geralt. What a surprise, isn't it! I've already made the acquaintance of your colleague, uh, who hasn't told me his name - "

The witcher still grinned, if possible even more broadly, his scar twisting in a most unbecoming fashion. He looked from Geralt to Jaskier and back, and again gave the impression that he'd like to rub his hands together if it were just appropriate for the moment.

"I'm Eskel, of wherever you please."

Jaskier nodded in his direction, keeping the smile on his face. 

"Ah! So, Master Eskel and me just had the most pleasant conversation."

Geralt snorted, elbowing Eskel to get a little more room on the bench. The other witcher moved duly, and Jaskier was treated to the view of both sitting next to each other, a perfect opportunity to compare. He had been right in his guess that both were of a very similar height and to an almost uncanny degree of the same built, probably the result of them having undergone the same mutations and the same training to produce two very similar bodies. The other thing the mutations had altered were the eyes, twice the same burning amber, but with very different expressions. Where Eskel seemed awake and amused there was the weariness behind Geralt's eyes that Jaskier knew so well. They had to be roughly the same age, but Geralt looked centuries older, more burdened, more tired.

"I can imagine. What are you doing here?"

Jaskier needed a moment to search for an answer, still busy with his staring. Geralt and Eskel exchanged a glance and Jaskier had one more thing to wonder about. He had never seen Geralt move around anyone with familiarity and now here he was, sharing a bench with that other witcher, sitting comfortably close when usually he avoided contact like the plague. 

He was so wrapped up in his staring and wondering that he forgot to answer. It was Eskel who took the chance. 

"Snooping, that's what he is doing. I guess you found out the same already?"

Geralt nodded, humming a response. Eskel, apparently used to sounds-as-answers just like Jaskier, continued. 

"And we'll see about the rest. Move, I'll go and see how the horses are doing. We shouldn't stay too long, but get yourself fed. I recommend the sausages, quite acceptable. I'll see you outside. Been a pleasure, Jaskier."

Jaskier nodded and watched Eskel collect his swords and the cloak he had kept hidden underneath, motion for Geralt to move and got up. He suddenly moved in a hurry that had to be artificial, even winking at Jaskier while Geralt was busy sitting down again. Then he was gone, leaving them alone at the table in the empty tavern with only the barmaid to eavesdrop. 

It could have been a good moment, but Jaskier was too nervous to sit still. 

"I'll order you food, you've just sat down again. Sausage or porridge? Hot cider? It's cold outside. Did you ride or walk from Kaer Morhen?"

Geralt needed a moment to catch up with the questions, but Jaskier was already on his feet. 

"Right, sausages it is. I'll be back in a minute."

Geralt just sat and stared, and he sat just in the same manner when Jaskier returned a few minutes later, with two fresh tankards of hot cider. He placed one down in front of himself and pushed the other in Geralt's direction, right next to the black leather gloves he had taken off and placed neatly on the table. Eskel, Jaskier realised, had not been wearing gloves. 

"Thank you."

Jaskier nodded, and hid his smile in his own tankard. The hot cider rolled nicely over his tongue, the pungent taste no longer revolting to him by now. Geralt seemed used to it as well, enjoying the warmth of the beverage for a minute before replacing the mug and tilting his head. 

"It is cold outside, and we rode from the fortress, though we will have to walk back. Jaskier, what are you doing here in Kaedwen, in winter?"

Jaskier placed his hands on the table and inhaled deeply. There was no way around the truth now. He had one chance, and he'd better take it. This was going excellent so far, and fortune tended to favour the brave. 

"Right, well, ha, would you believe. So, uhm, I might have gotten myself kicked out of Aedirn, and all the courts in Kaedwen, so I was, uh, you know, stuck on the border between Aedirn and Kaedwen, and I couldn't go into the Pontar Valley, because, ah, you know - "

He looked up from his hands and met Geralt's gaze, who absolutely already knew what Jaskier was going to say. 

"You fucked the wrong person. Again."

He sounded resigned, but also ever so slightly amused. Jaskier couldn't help but shrug. 

"She was pretty, in my defence. She also may have been the King's current fancy lady, if you know what I mean."

Geralt snorted, knowing perfectly well what Jaskier meant. 

"And now Aedirn and her allies don't want you at their courts anymore. Of course, with the current political climate they won't risk peace over such a trifle."

Jaskier had massive issues with being called a trifle, but well. For now he'd keep silent. He wanted something from Geralt, after all. 

"Exactly, so I was stuck in Kaedwen. Can't cross the borders, not now. It will be no problem in spring, but right now I have to spread merriness and art in beautiful Kaedwen. Art for the people!"

He spread his arms to indicate that he meant all the people, and was met with a raised eyebrow on Geralt's part who, it had to be said, probably knew the people of Kaedwen better than Jaskier ever wanted to. 

"You're looking for a hiding spot for the winter."

Sighing Jaskier dropped his arms and nodded. Now all he could do was hope, and he moulded his face accordingly into the most trusting puppy-expression he could muster. 

He could almost watch Geralt realise the seriousness of the situation he was in. Sinking back on the bench he dropped his head against the wooden panelling with a thud that would possibly knock out an ordinary human. For a second he closed his eyes and then pulled himself up again. 

"You can't be serious."

Going for the most winning smile he had on offer Jaskier beamed at him, trying to ignore the nagging doubt that was forming in his mind. 

"Wouldn't it be fun? We haven't seen each other for months, I could get all your stories in peace. No running next to Roach - by the way, how is Roach? We'll sit by the fire and talk, and I'll give you a private performance of all my new songs. I've got a few wonderful new tunes, it will be delightful. Eskel also seems to be really good company, I'd like to hear his stories as well."

He wanted to add to his monologue, but was interrupted by the barmaid placing the plate with sausages and bread down in front of him. Geralt nodded his thanks in her direction and she weaselled off again, now looking at Jaskier in passing as if he was certified insane. Which, if he was honest, wasn't far off the mark. 

"Kaer Morhen isn't just an ordinary court where you can just slip in and sing for your dinner."

Geralt sounded dead serious, but Jaskier was used to ignoring his concerns. He pushed on, knowing that he had to. 

"Oh, but even better! I'm sick of courts, everyone is so stuck up." He fluttered his hands in an elegant way to indicate what he meant, well aware that Geralt shared his opinion on the nobility in general and courtiers in particular. 

With a sigh Geralt picked up his cutlery, starting to disassemble his breakfast in a way that was eerily similar to what Eskel had done in that very spot not too long ago. 

"Are you and Eskel brothers, by the way?"

Surprised Geralt looked up, stopping his food dissection halfway. 

"What has that to do with everything?"

Jaskier shrugged.

"Just wondering. You're very much alike."

There was a hint of emotion in Geralt's eyes that Jaskier couldn't place, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. 

"You've seen him once for five minutes."

Grinning Jaskier pulled the pot with cherries over and started to spoon the alcohol drenched fruit generously into his already empty bowl. 

"Well, if you take me to Kaer Morhen and keep me around for the winter I'll have time to do some in depth-research on witchers and their family situation."

Geralt snorted ungracefully, ever so slightly sounding like Roach. 

"Witchers don't have what you call a family.“

Plopping the lid back onto the cherry pot Jaskier wagged his finger in Geralt's direction, throwing all caution into the wind. 

"Oh, I think you might be wrong there.“

The look Geralt shot him was murderous, but Jaskier didn't bother to reply and dug his spoon into the cherries. This was going quite well, if he fancied saying so. Tasting the fruit he savoured the burn of the alcohol on his tongue and mentally prepared his baggage for the trip to Kaer Morhen. Did they sell boots in this village? He really needed good boots for that walk to the fortress.


	2. I'm not your fault / But I am your problem

Closing the door to the tiny, cold room behind him for what he hoped was the last time Jaskier couldn't help but grin. It had been a most successful day, proving once again that his silver tongue could do a lot more than people gave him credit for. The stars had aligned, fortune favoured the brave, whatever. Taking the stairs two at a time he almost jumped down, quickly marched through the tap room and winked at the barmaid for the last time. He had already paid his room and settled all bills, now being slightly down on coin. But who cared about being down on coin when his spirits were this high?

"Farewell, sweet Lady. I may see you again in spring."

The barmaid barely looked up from where she was wiping the dirty counter top with an already dirty rag, just shaking her head at his unbelievable gall. The entire village already knew what he had been up to, and he'd for sure be the talk of the town for another few month - probably until the ice melted. And then, on his return trip, they would eat out of his hands, begging for the songs about what had happened in his winter with witchers. Wait, winter with witchers? There was the title for the anthology already! Splendid.

Blowing a kiss at the barmaid for good measure he adjusted his lute and the saddle bag he used to keep his few worldly possessions in and with energetic steps left the tavern. 

Ten minutes later his horse was saddled and ready to go, and he walked him over to the outskirts of the village where he knew the witchers had tied their own horses up. It was early afternoon and still light outside, and usually he wouldn't be so enamoured with the prospect of walking for two days straight in this freezing cold and uncomfortable weather. He hadn't even managed to acquire proper sturdy boots in the few short hours he had between talking to Geralt and then waiting for the two witchers to come to a decision. Then things had happened incredibly fast, and now he was utterly unprepared. But adventure was beckoning, and all the bleak prospects of a solitary winter had suddenly disappeared. And it had stopped snowing, at least.

He was perfectly on time, and found both horses and witchers already prepared for departure. It was Roach who noticed him first, turning her head in his direction and snorting. The other, a bay coloured mare with black mane and lovely white markings on her legs seemed unfazed, trying to plug the last bits of dry grass from the ground. Both horses were saddled with pack saddles, and already laden with Hessian bags filled to the brim with the goods the witchers had purchased in the village. Geralt and Eskel were working in silence, both wrapped into their thick cloaks, swords on their backs. Drawing closer Jaskier noticed that Eskel carried both silver and steel blades while Geralt had only his silver blade easily accessible, his steel sword neatly hidden amongst the smaller saddlebags tied to Roach's saddle. Instead of the second blade he carried a heavy black kitbag that probably would have made Jaskier double over and didn't seem to bother his movement in the slightest. Roach, at the same time, carried one bag less than the bay mare Eskel tended to.

His own horse snorted behind him as he arrived at the small space, eyeing the two new horses and witchers with interest. 

"Good afternoon, Gentlemen!"

Jaskier knew he sounded too enthusiastic when Geralt rolled his eyes, checking the straps around the saddle for the final time. Eskel grinned and saluted him in return. 

"You owe me, Bard. It was quite hard to convince this one of your good intentions."

Feeling offended Jaskier shot Geralt a hurt glance, but was pointedly ignored. 

"You will not regret your choice, Master Witcher."

Untying the reins of his horse from the beam Eskel nodded. 

"Don't make me. And stop calling me Master, we don't stand high on ceremony in Kaer Morhen. You better get used to it."

Geralt hummed his agreement and turned around, the reins already in hand. Giving Jaskier and his horse a good once-over he tilted his head. 

"Come here."

It wasn't quite an uncommon request, but Jaskier immediately suffered a proper flash-back and hesitated, causing Geralt to sigh. 

"I won't hit you this time."

Eskel looked confused, but Jaskier decided to trust against his better judgement and loosened his grip on the reins, knowing his horse would stay where he was. He stopped right before Geralt, just an arm’s length away, and waited. For a brief moment Geralt just looked at him, face unreadable. 

"Are you sure this is a good decision? Kaer Morhen is cold and uncomfortable in winter, bleak and dark. Our lodgings are not set up to be suitable for humans, our customs will be unusual to you. You will be bored, and you won't be able to leave. Not when the snow comes, and not even before. If you run into the woods you will be dead. And - " He faltered for a moment. "You will be the only human, alone amongst witchers. It will be strange to you." 

Well, Geralt was for sure not going to become a good salesman anytime soon, or in case of a career switch ever. Then Jaskier pondered his argument. For a moment he looked around, at the dirty village, at the dark woods behind them. He knew that the villagepeople were looking at them, from a distance, but with mistrust and in parts open hostility. Was he sure? Of course not, nobody ever was sure of anything. That didn't make it a bad idea. Going to Kaer Morhen was slightly insane, and also his best bet. It would be strange, that was the point about it. It would also change a dynamic in their friendship that Jaskier had always considered to be set in stone: that Jaskier was - more or less - normal, and Geralt the other thing. Now the tables would be turned, and somehow Jaskier thought it would make him understand a few things he had wondered about for years now, lift a veil he had tried to tear apart so often and never even managed to grasp. 

So he nodded, with conviction. 

Geralt exchanged a glance with Eskel and shrugged. Then he did something Jaskier had never seen him do before. Reaching around his own neck he undid the clasp holding his medallion, opened it and took the chain off. 

"Hold your palms up."

Surprised Jaskier did as told, holding out both hands, palms up. Without pretext Geralt dropped the medallion into his outstretched hands, and wrapped his own hands in black gloves around Jaskier's palms, pressing them together, skin against silver. The medallion felt heavy in his hands, warm from Geralt's body heat even though it had been sitting on top of his armour without touching his skin. Jaskier had his own theory about the actual purpose of the medallion, having long since ceased to believe that it was just a badge of honour or recognition. Geralt never took it off, not for bathing or merry-making, and certainly not in battle. There had to be something about it, and he was keen to find out. But he wouldn't today, because the moment passed as soon as it came. Satisfied Geralt loosened his grip around Jaskier's hands, took the medallion from his opened hands and replaced it around his neck. 

Bewildered Jaskier watched him, and only realised what had happened when he noticed that Eskel had watched the scene with more attention then was strictly necessary, poised on the edge of movement that could become necessary any moment. He relaxed visibly when Geralt took the medallion back again, and turned away. 

For some reason the little test offended Jaskier more than it should have.

"You thought I was, well, something in disguise? I'm disappointed in both of you."

Hands on his hips he glowered at Geralt, who seemed absolutely unfazed. 

"Occupational habit. We need to move, it's a long way to Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier rolled his eyes, but directed his attention to Roach who now was in his reach as well, pointedly ignoring everything that was happening around her.

"Hello Darling, I haven't seen you in a while."

Roach snorted again, continuously ignoring Jaskier but allowing him to stroke her strong neck. He patted her gently, and then had already moved to return to his own horse when he noticed the injury on her croup. 

"What is that?"

He turned back to her, examining the four deep gashes running all the way from the croup down to her hind leg. The injury was already a few days old but would still need a long time to heal, being carefully cleaned and tended to. Whatever that had been had clearly attacked the horse from behind or above, burying claws into her flesh with great force and probably at quite a bit of speed.

"What in sweet Melitele's name happened?"

Geralt gave the reins a little tug and Roach moved towards him obediently. 

"Wargs."

It wasn't quite an explanation, but Jaskier remembered the howls in the forest and shuddered. 

"A warg tried to eat your horse?"

The answer came from behind him. 

"A warg tried to eat Geralt and his horse."

Horrified Jaskier turned around, seeing the smug expression on Eskel's face. Witchers had some serious problems when it came to attitudes concerning near-death experiences, that was for sure.

"Four wargs, actually. Or was it five, Geralt?"

Now Eskel was obviously finding joy in badgering Geralt, who moved on without waiting for Jaskier to tug his own horse along. 

"I don't know how many. A pack usually has four to ten. I killed six, injured a few. Others are probably still around."

Geralt seemed more or less bored, but Jaskier was already used to his stance of being unimpressed with everything as long as it didn't kill him. Occupational hazard, probably. But wargs were big, and very dangerous. A human could maybe survive a fight with one, if they were a very good fighter, and even for a witcher an entire pack of wargs wasn't a picnic on a fine spring day. And judging from Roach's injury it really hadn't been.

"You fought an entire pack of wargs and are still in possession of all your body parts?"

It must have been epic, and for a moment Jaskier was torn between regretting that he hadn't been there and being happy about the very same fact. 

"Mostly."

Geralt shrugged again, and once again it was Eskel who spoilt the impression. 

"Mostly! Vesemir spent an hour patching him back up, that's what he means to say. You're not armed, Bard, are you?"

Jaskier looked from Eskel to Geralt, and did the math. He knew when Geralt had passed through the village because the barmaid had told him, and she had not mentioned that either the witcher or his horse were injured. That meant the warg attack must have happened just before Jaskier had arrived at the village. Witcher physiology included improbable healing speeds, but deep wounds still needed time, and if it had taken someone an hour to patch Geralt back up they weren't talking about some scrapes and bruises. Jaskier was no stranger to pulling a needle and thread through the witcher's living flesh, but those stitches tended to heal slower than Geralt liked. 

Briefly Jaskier considered lecturing Geralt on recovery periods, but scraped the thought, knowing fully well that it was pointless anyway. If Geralt wanted to put armour over fresh wounds he would, and usually did. But it maybe explained why Eskel was around, beyond the basic need of having two horses to carry weight. 

Jaskier turned to the other witcher, now exceedingly happy he was there. How many wargs had Geralt said had survived?

"No, I'm not."

Shaking his head Eskel clicked his tongue, and his mare moved. 

"We need to change that. How can you run around with Geralt and not have a blade of your own? Foolishness!"

Geralt nodded his agreement with that. There was nothing new there - after all he had tried to talk Jaskier into acquiring a sword of his own for a long time now. He knew about the dagger and had seen Jaskier use it, but never commented on the obvious fact that there was skill in those movements that couldn't come from sheer luck. To aid the image of the damsel in distress Jaskier refused to wear a sword, with the pretended argument that a sword would look strange with his outfit.

It had caused Geralt to roll his eyes so hard Jaskier worried they would get stuck, worked for the time being, and also freed him from explaining to Geralt, of all people, that Jaskier had noticed how people who wore swords tended to get into trouble more frequently than those who didn't. It was Jaskier's facade of being absolutely of no importance, a negligible little songbird fluttering around that had gotten him out of many a dire situation. Armed men tended to ignore pretty boys, and a butterfly easily slipped through barriers and gates without anyone noticing. The mirage worked, and Jaskier had no intention of destroying what essentially was a beautiful picture. 

Glad to evade the topic Jaskier smiled, fell into step and moved into line with Eskel, with Geralt and Roach bringing up the rear of their little convoy. Within moments they were out of the village, quickly approaching the forest that swallowed them up. The woods around them grew denser by the minute, the thick undergrowth offering ideal potential hiding spaces for a lot of unsavoury beasts. Jaskier wasn't skittish and the years with Geralt had made him somewhat calloused to danger. But his mind helpfully supplied memories of the sounds he had heard the previous nights, the howls and screams, and mixed with the injuries on Roach and those hidden under Geralt's armour Jaskier couldn't help but feel a little jumpy. 

The unpleasant feeling didn't leave him. They walked in silence for a while, each one minding their horses and steps on the uneven pathway that had visibly fallen into disrepair. Around them the pale light of the afternoon sun quickly started to drain away, dusk settling in quicker than it had any right to. 

It was also getting colder by the minute, and Jasker was not dressed for this kind of journey. He wasn't quite wearing court finery, but even his usual travelling clothes were not cut for the Kaedwen cold. As they started to ascend towards the flank of the mountain he tried to swallow his discomfort, thin cloak wrapped tightly around him. Snow was starting to again slowly fall around them, having already settled on the undergrowth, softening the dark green of the forest with fresh white. It also gave them more light, reflecting what was left of the weak sunlight for longer than the trees and bushes would have.

"You should mount your horse, Bard. We have a long walk ahead, and you should save your energy while you still can."

Eskel's voice sounded hushed in the silence surrounding them. Considering his options Jaskier wondered if he should feel offended at being handled like a child. But then his feet were cold, just like his hands, and riding would be a bit more comfortable for a while. He saw the look Geralt gave Eskel and realised that sitting on a horse would also give him a vantage point over the path and surroundings, tactically a good place to be in an insecure surrounding. 

Pulling down the stirrups he easily hoisted himself up, giving his horse a second to adjust to his weight and settling in comfortably. Biel snorted, stomping the ground for a moment. It gave Geralt the chance to walk up, now fitting on the path next to Jaskier, with Roach on the inside sandwiched between Biel and Geralt. Eskel had stopped as well, waiting for them to reshuffle their places and adjust. Jaskier subtly flexed his cold fingers and rubbed them before picking up the reins and gently nudging Biel forward. 

The forest looked very different from the higher point of view, and he realised that Eskel maybe had also picked up on his nervousness and decided to give him a little break. Witchers were observant, he had known that for a long time, always in tune with their surroundings, vigilant and alert. 

That they also saw the tiniest movements was proven minutes later, when Jaskier again inconspicuously tried to rub his cold fingers and suddenly a pair of black gloves appeared in his field of vision, held up across Roach's neck. He didn't hesitate for a second, gratefully slipping them on, relishing the warmth still captured in the lining. Smiling he caught Geralt's gaze and nodded his thanks, receiving a tilt of the head in return. 

They marched on in silence, listening to the woods and the noises coming from the undergrowth. In the beginning Jaskier had planned to sing for them during their journey, but the story of the wargs had reminded him that monster infested woods weren't the best place for impromptu performances. He had learnt as much, once or twice the hard way, and now knew precisely well when it made sense for him to keep his silence to let the witcher's sensitive hearing do its job. He had no intention of arriving in Kaer Morhen in pieces, and the claw marks on Roach's back had better not find their way into Jaskier's soft flesh.

Climbing upwards in a steady pace they moved on and on, not stopping once, without hurry but determined. Darkness fell suddenly, and Jaskier noticed the moon rising over the tree tops, their bleak leafless branches reaching into the dark night sky. There were no stars. 

Stopping for a short minute Geralt produced two torches from his knapsack, offering them to Eskel who cast a quick Ignii to light them and took one over for himself. The dancing light brightened the path in front of them, which was helpful for Jaskier and absolutely not necessary for the witchers, whose eyes had long since adapted to the lack of light. Neither them nor the horses needed any additional light, but plenty of creatures were afraid of fire - wargs and wolves among them. It was clear that neither Geralt nor Eskel were keen on fighting that night, not with the loaded horses and Jaskier in tow, and the torches were a clear signal to anything approaching them that they were armed and not to be trifled with. Snow continued to fall, the thin flakes like a veil in the air around them, settling in their hair and on the horses' manes.

And then the tiredness came. Jaskier was so cold he was numb and had long since given up any hope for dinner. The constant swaying on his horse lulled him in, but he couldn't afford to let go of his consciousness. Straining his hearing to aid the constant vigilance of the witchers he listened and listened, until he thought his could hear his own blood pumping. 

Just when he thought he'd just fall down from his horse and remain on the path, sinking into the forest ground forever Eskel suddenly stopped. The sudden halt alerted Jaskier, rapidly pulling him from his drowsy state. Adrenalin spiked in his blood, and he quickly looked around. But Geralt seemed unalarmed, nodding at Eskel's questioning gaze and turning to Jaskier. 

"There's a cave just off the trail. The horses need to rest."

He didn't mention that Jaskier's tiredness was hard to overlook, and Jaskier was briefly thankful for it. 

It was obvious that both witchers knew the area they were moving in very well. Quickly they left the trail on a side-path that was well-trodden already, and arrived at the cave that looked onto a small clearing. People had rested here before, remains of a fire ring on the ground and space to tie up the horses signs of recent activity. Jaskier nearly fell off Biel on his way down and then tried his best to help the witchers set up camp, being quickly relegated to building the fire when it turned out he could barely lift the Hessian bags off the horses' backs. Even without his tiredness and numb hands they'd be simply too heavy, obviously laden with witcher strength in mind. 

Firewood was stacked in the cave, well-dried and ready to be turned into a fire near the entrance. Jaskier quickly built up a good fire and then settled down, his cloak tightly pulled around him, waiting for either Eskel or Geralt to cast Ignii at the wood. Sitting on the conveniently placed tree trunk marking the opening he watched both moving around, and even his tired brain couldn't help but admiring the efficiency with which they set up camp. He had watched Geralt do more or less the same a hundred times or more, but now with Eskel and their cargo added into the mix it became more obvious how well-placed every movement was. Both easily worked around each other, not getting in the other's way, knowing precisely what needed to be done, sometimes exchanging a glance to adjust their tasks as necessary. Watching Geralt brush down Biel with the same care he usually reserved for Roach and noting the obvious enjoyment of his otherwise slightly shy horse Jaskier couldn't help but feel a little out of place. He was hungry, tired and frozen to the bone, even with Geralt's gloves, and ultimately useless. 

Comparing himself to the witchers in their sure and confident movements made him suddenly feel inadequate. It was a feeling he was already well acquainted with, especially since it had tormented him regularly at the beginning of his time with Geralt. A human had no business comparing himself to a witcher, and Jaskier knew that it was absolutely ridiculous to compare his own flawed physiology to Geralt and Eskel, who were literally created as efficient tools perfectly adjusted to hard work and battle. They didn't have Jaskier's human problems, or at least only in a very reduced way where they could be ignored for a long time until they became too pressing to be overlooked. It came with its own set of limitations, and Jaskier was acutely aware of at least a few of them and had suspicions that there were more lurking in the darkness that sometimes convened behind Geralt's eyes and wouldn't lift for days on end. 

Falling into his musings Jaskier allowed his thoughts to roam, and only realised he had dozed off when Geralt gently touched his shoulder. The fire in front of him was burning and Eskel had produced bread and cheese out of nowhere, handing Jaskier his dinner without unnecessary words, but a friendly nod. They sat in silence, the sounds of the woods and the snorting horses the only thing to prove that life existed beyond the glow of the flames. As soon as Jaskier was done eating he excused himself, relieved himself behind the cave - not too far out of sight, lest something eat him in the most vulnerable moment - and returned to collapse on his bedroll that had magically appeared in the cave. Geralt had placed Jaskier's few bags around it, neatly arranging everything, and Jaskier was thankful for the thoughtfulness.

He settled in and would have fallen asleep, had the cave not been that cold. The warmth of the fire didn't reach all the way back, even though he could see the flames and the shadows of Eskel and Geralt sitting there, obviously not planning to retire at all. Eskel was tending to his blade, carefully oiling it, the scent of citrus wafting into the cave from time to time. They weren't talking, and it didn't take them long to hear the sound of Jaskier's teeth chattering. He tried to stop it, but there was nothing he could do, no matter how he pressed his face into the folds of his bedroll. 

He was so focused on trying to keep his teeth silent that he flinched when Geralt appeared next to him. Murmuring something soothing under his breath that Jaskier couldn't understand he only realised why Geralt had left the fire when the heavy fur was gently placed on top of him. The effect was instant, the cloak carrying all of Geralt's body heat with it just like the gloves had earlier. Tucking it around Jaskier with more care than he had any right to show Geralt straightened up again and returned to the mouth of the cave. Jaskier quickly nestled into the comfortable warmth, his teeth finally silent and his mind half-way wandered off behind his closed eyes. The cloak was heavy, the fur lining soft and in remarkably good condition. It smelled of the smoke from their fire, the leather from Geralt's armour and Roach, a combination that most would have found repulsing and Jaskier only registered as comforting. He was almost gone, listening to the cracks in the fire, when Eskel’s soft voice flowed into his dreams, barely above a whisper. It was clear he was talking to Geralt, for his ears only, but Jaskier had the sharp hearing of a trained musician, not quite on witcher level but extraordinary among humans. 

"Tell me, Wolf."

Geralt didn't answer, but Jaskier imagined him turning slightly towards Eskel, tilting his head, flames mirrored in his amber eyes turning the irises into liquid gold. 

"There's a bard on the way to Kaer Morhen, asleep in the cave behind us, wrapped into your cloak."

This time Geralt hummed an affirmative answer, but he still didn't say anything. The fire crackled again. 

"I wonder why."

There was silence again, and no answer Jasker could hear. And then Eskel laughed, very softly, almost gently.

"Decades and decades I have known you, and still you surprise me."

Jaskier strained his ears to hear the response, but it never came. Instead his mind sank into the warmth of the fur and the distant fire, trying to find the meaning behind these questions and wondering, maybe, if he himself even knew the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not your fault / But I am your problem" taken from Biffy Clyro's "End of". Yes, I know, it's a song lyrics. But even if the song does not necessarily fit with this particular fic that line just wouldn't go out of my head, and, I mean.. listen to the thing, and tell me if it isn't well fitting for any Geralt and Jaskier shipping. Just sayin'.


	3. And now the wolves /

When Jaskier was woken early the next morning it was Eskel who carefully shook his shoulder, retreating back to the dying fire to give him a moment to wake up properly. It wasn't yet fully light outside, but Geralt was already loading the horses. Within minutes Jaskier was fully awake and neatly packing up camp, shivering in the morning cold, his breath forming little clouds. He returned Geralt's cloak with a muttered thanks, and turned to Biel to make sure his tack was properly done up. 

Minutes later they were on the road, Jaskier on Biel's back munching on bread, the witchers apparently either having already eaten or eschewing food. It had stopped snowing, and now the sides of the path were covered in frost and a thin layer of white powder. They walked on in silence until they reached the outer limits of the forest, having crossed through and over a ridge without really noticing it. From there the path was more challenging and Jaskier quickly dismounted Biel to lead him by the reins. They marched on, slowly crossing over the sloping flanks of the mountain until the path suddenly vanished, seemingly stopping and ending in nothing but undergrowth. 

For a moment they paused, giving the horses a quick break. It was already around midday, the sun barely visible through hazy clouds. Geralt checked something with Roach's load, busying himself with tending to the bags while Eskel turned around to face Jaskier. 

"A word, Bard. This -" He gestured to the path, suddenly very serious, all traces of friendliness gone from his disfigured face. " - is the point where you have to decide. From here you can see nothing that you humans aren't supposed to see. But if we take you further you will be in uncharted territory. If you stay with us for the winter we will necessarily divulge our secrets to you. We have done so before, and it has not served us well." 

Briefly he was silent and Jaskier knew exactly what he meant. The siege could not have happened hadn't humans known where to find the fortress, how to attack it. They had forgotten it now, but there remained a chance they would come back one day, if they just knew the way.

Behind him Roach snorted and stomped, and Jaskier turned around for a second. He hadn't tracked the movement or even noticed it, but when he turned back Eskel had drawn his steel sword, its tip perfectly placed at Jaskier's adam's apple, not grazing the skin yet. Jaskier froze in place, not moving, barely breathing.

"If you betray us, Bard, if you tell others what you have seen we will suffer consequences. But so will you. We will hunt you, and we will find you."

For a moment Jaskier was speechless, feeling the cold steel of the sword balanced against his throat, his life suddenly entirely depending on Eskel's goodwill and steady hands.

"Sweet Melitele help me, I won't betray you, I never would. I promise!"

He tried his best not to sound squeaky, but he didn't dare to breath too deep lest the blade would dig into his skin. Eskel's gaze was steady, determined, making it very obvious that he had meant every word and would personally track Jaskier down and make sure he'd meet an unfriendly end - and Jaskier knew that it would happen, that he couldn't outrun this, that Eskel would find him and expertly kill him. 

Eskel waited for Jaskier's promise to sink in, then nodded and in one fluid motion resheated his sword. 

"Good. I'm glad we found an understanding."

His voice had easily switched back to his friendly tones, but Jaskier was no fool. Eskel had been surprisingly approachable, easy to talk to, but underneath his friendly demeanour lay the same stony resolve Geralt had. Both were forged from the same material, it was just displayed slightly differently. 

Now freed from the threat at his throat Jaskier took a step back and promptly bumped into Geralt, who silently had moved to stand right behind him, arms crossed in front of his chest, perfectly calm. Steady hands on Jaskier's shoulders stopped him from losing his balance, and when Geralt exchanged a glance with Eskel and nodded Jaskier realised that they had spoken about this. At some point they had discussed how to do it, if Eskel would put his blade to Jaskier's throat or if it was Geralt's privilege, and Jaskier was burning to know why Geralt had waived his right to threaten him. Then he thought about it, about having Geralt's blade at his throat and without further examination knew exactly why it had been Eskel's duty.

But the gall! The drama! Putting a sword to a bard's neck and demanding an oath of fidelity, oh, what a song it would make. In my winter with witchers / they put a sword to my throat / my heart beating wildly they made me swear - ah, he could already hear the proper melody, even if the phrasing was still a bit lacking. 

"Wait, but I need to write songs! What if I show them to you and you tell me what I can sing in public and - "

Geralt pushed him on, his hands for some reason still lingering on Jaskier's shoulders. 

"Move, Jaskier. We will talk about your songs later."

Huffed Jaskier closed his mouth. Fine, they could have it their way. They'd talk about it later. But oh, they would!

Eskel, in the meantime, had picked up the pace again, leading them off the path to the right. They ducked underneath a fallen large tree trunk, covered in moss. There was no sign that they were still on any kind of trail, but Eskel's horse happily marched onwards and seemed to perfectly well know where to put her hooves. 

After a while of manoeuvring through the tight openings of overgrown forest the new trail opened suddenly. It lead them down the slope and up again, around another ridge. To their right the rock face was reaching higher and higher as they were slowly but steadily descending. Now the path was sand and gravel, and underneath Jaskier could hear the Gwenllech bubbling, here merely a small river and not the mighty stream it was down in the valleys. The view was spectacular, the undulating hills of the Blue Mountains stretching out before them. They were still up much higher than Jaskier had anticipated, and he was glad to be free of vertigo. 

Their formation made speaking difficult, and Jaskier hung about his own thoughts. He was only pulled back from his musings to reality when they reached a part of the path were the ground was disturbed, blood splattering the rock face, signs of a fight having taken place visible everywhere. Examining the ground Jaskier stopped, looking around. At the very bottom of the steep slope, at the end of long traces of dried blood showing where they had fallen downwards lay heaps of brownish shapes. On closer examination they turned out to be warg heads, severed from the bodies which were nowhere to be seen. Their teeth were still exposed, yellow eyes grim with the determination of attack.

Shuddering Jaskier turned back. The path wasn't exactly wide, just enough for one person leading a horse. Looking up he saw the upper edge of the rock face, and understood that the wargs had attacked from there. It was a perfect hiding space, anything crouching up there almost impossible to detect. A human would have not stood a chance, would not have even been able to attempt a fight in such a small space as the path was, not with a horse there as well. 

He wondered if Geralt had noticed the wargs before they had attacked, had smelled or heard them, but it didn't make a difference. Fact was that he and Roach had survived, injured but not permanently damaged. 

The thoughts must have shown on his face, because while Geralt, who had patiently waited for Jaskier to examine the battlefield, motioned for him to move onwards and close ranks with Eskel and his mare again he tilted his head a little. 

"That wasn't my first pack of wargs, Jaskier. We have a lot of them around here."

It was supposed to be a reassurance, but only made Jaskier more worried. And hadn't Geralt said he had killed six and injured a few more? Those had to be still around, waiting, maybe planning revenge. Closing up to Eskel he made sure to move on, get away from the scene of the fight and outwalk his uneasy feeling.

They moved on, walking for what seemed like a very long time and then, rapidly descending now, turned a corner and there was Kaer Morhen. On the opposite side of the river bed that was much broader than the Gwenllech could flow cowered the fortress against the flank of the next hill. Their blackened stones reaching into the sky the massive collection of abandoned looking buildings it consisted off nestled on the ground, windows empty black eyes without life behind it. There were no flags fluttering from what remained of the turrets, no signs of any activity pointing towards the fact that anybody was still dwelling inside the hollowed out skeleton. 

What must have been a proud fortress once was a ruin now. The outer defence walls showed clear pathways through, had halfway been broken down, torn by a besieging army, set on fire, blown up by magic and black powder. Crumbling remains of what had been the barbican were pointing towards the sky, battlements slowly falling, no sign of any repairs having been made visible. The only thing that seemed remotely intact was the main keep, but even there it wasn't obvious that it was still in use. The late afternoon sun was pale and weak, adding nothing to the feeling of utter desolation. 

Only on the second glance Jaskier noticed the battlefield surrounding the fortress, strewn with remains from the siege. There were bones littering the riverbed, skulls and femurs, what was left of armour and rusting weaponry. The river flowed over the dead and their equipment, having washed out their bones and turned their steel into nothing but archaeological finds. For a moment Jaskier imagined the fire and death, smelt the devastation and the horror, thought he could hear the screams of the fighting and dying army. He needed to shake his head to clear his mind, glad they had stopped, Eskel and Geralt giving him a moment to take everything in. 

Nobody said a word. There was nothing Jaskier, ever so eloquent, dealing with words as a currency, a token of love and a balm for wounds, could say. In the face of this manifested hatred he had to fall silent, to mourn maybe, just for a moment. 

Then they moved on, Eskel leading them the long way around so they could descend without stressing the horses with their heavy load. They walked for almost another hour, with the onset of a light snowfall and the light almost gone when they reached the actual entrance to the castle. Still there was no sign of life, no movement, no light in any of the empty windows. 

Leading the horses through what remained of the gatehouse and into the outer bailey, the hooves making loud noises on the cobblestones Jaskier craned his neck while following Eskel's lead. He was so busy with staring up at the crumbling main tower that he didn't notice how the gate opened, needing a light push from Geralt to move again. By now he was tired, having walked all day without any break for food or rest, longing to finally arrive somewhere.

And then they were in the middle courtyard with the stables and a large open space, covered walkways around them, the inner walls rising up. They stood for maybe a few seconds before the gate opened, and it turned out that they had been expected. 

"What were you doing, picking flowers and dancing on the meadows? We were expecting you much earlier." 

The voice was rough and demanding, and Jaskier turned around to see what looked like the most intimidating witcher he had ever seen. He was taller and if possible broader than both Geralt and Eskel were, steel grey hair falling down to his chin and partly brushed back, dressed all in brown and grey leather and a variety of armour parts, wolf medallion dangling from his neck, obligatory sword on his back. Deep lines were set in his face and Jaskier could see a collection of scars running down the side of his throat. His attention was fixed on Geralt and Eskel before he turned around and pinned Jaskier down with a glare out of narrowed amber eyes. 

"Who is that?"

Jaskier drew a nervous breath, fighting the impulse to take a step back and inch closer to Geralt. It seemed that he was finally experiencing the flight impulses most humans developed around witchers and that had so far evaded him completely in his dealings with them.

"Our guest for the winter." 

Geralt sounded matter-of-fact, but even Jaskier could pick up that the answer was important, that this witcher was the one who would decide if Jaskier could stay or had to leave again and that it was important to make a good impression right now. Straightening up again and pushing any impulses for immediate panic down Jaskier bowed slightly, trying to smile winningly. 

"Good afternoon, Master Witcher. My name is Jaskier, and it would be my pleasure to be wintering here."

Silently the old witcher looked at Jaskier with the same intensity Eskel had just the day before, weighing what he was seeing. And Jaskier knew precisely well what he saw. A colourful songbird, silk and lace on a thin body, the red spots the cold had painted on his face - a person entirely unsuited to Kaer Morhen, to the cold of the winter, to the tough life witchers were leading. There was no way Jaskier could be anything but considered too light, no chance for him to pass the test. His heart was beating too fast, he was hungry and shivering in the cold, and he knew the witchers could sense his discomfort easily. 

Then the moment passed, and the attention of the old witcher glided from Jaskier to Geralt, fixing him with the same merciless stare. 

"Is that your fault?"

His voice was hard, allowing no discussion or protest. Shrugging Geralt tilted his head, indicating a nod. But he didn't say anything, seemingly comfortable under the scrutiny. The old witcher growled a little. 

"We need to talk."

It was very clearly an order, and Geralt obeyed immediately. Handing the reins over to Jaskier he patted Roach once. 

"Eskel will show you the stables, take care of your horse and Roach. I'll meet you later."

Nodding Jaskier took the reins, watching Geralt move and fall into the step with the older witcher. Together they walked away from the group, and quickly vanished out of sight into a covered walkway. Worried Jaskier looked at their backs, identical silver swords and all, until they were out of sight and Eskel clicked his tongue to get his attention. 

"Come on, let us take the load off the horses. They deserve their break, and so will we our dinner as soon as everything is settled into place."

Looking at him Jaskier was surprised to find no hint of worry on his face. Eskel seemed perfectly at ease, and following him towards the stables Jaskier wondered if he was interpreting the situation completely wrong. But leading Roach and Biel at the same time proved complicated enough to take his attention off the conversation Geralt was having right now, and back to his task at hand. Making sure Roach could easily manoeuvre with the load on her back while keeping Biel in check Jaskier had little chance to look around. But even like this he couldn't help but notice that Kaer Morhen wasn't a beautiful place. Every stone seemed blackened by fire, grass growing in the seams of the walls, the courtyard nothing but firmly tamped earth with the odd cobblestone in the ground here and there, uneven and treacherous to walk upon. And then they passed by the frames, six of them in total, planted into the ground next to one of the defence walls - six warg skins, stretched onto wood for drying to be tanned someday. All of them were headless and showed various holes, and Jaskier couldn't help but shudder. They weren't exactly smelling good, either. 

Eskel, of course, noticed. 

"Warg skins work great as saddlepads. Too dirty to be put to use for anything else, sadly."

Looking over his horse's back he noticed Jaskier's horrified face and laughed. 

"We make use of whatever we got, Bard. You will need to learn this, too. Kaer Morhen is no place for the squeamish." 

Feeling a bit sheepish about his judgement Jaskier nodded, and then was too busy getting both Biel and Roach into the stables to worry about it any longer. 

They took nearly an hour unloading and caring for the horses. It was Eskel who had to take care of the large bags, but Jaskier could handle Biel and Roach with practised ease, knowing well how Geralt set Roach's tack up and how he liked to take care of it. Both made sure to give the horses the attention they deserved, brushing and feeding them. Going through Geralt's bags without any shame Jaskier found the small jar with healing salve he had known to be there, and carefully tended to the injuries on Roach's croup. She bit him only once, and only rather gently, which he counted as a success. Finally Jaskier followed Eskel out of the stable and through a connecting corridor into the bowls of the fortress, carrying not only his own bags slung over his shoulders next to his lute but also the bags from Roach's saddle minus Geralt's steel sword which Eskel had taken without a word. Witchers were touchy when it came to their weapons, and Jaskier knew very well why.

Walking through the stone passages they quickly reached what had to be a lower level consisting mostly of storage rooms. Rounding a final corner Jaskier saw torch light in the otherwise already dark passages, and heard noises of someone moving around in what turned out to be a large vaulted cellar serving as a pantry. Following Eskel over the threshold Jaskier stopped rather abruptly, and gaped. 

He had expected a lot, but not that Kaer Morhen was fitted out to withstand another siege for a couple of months. Well, her walls wouldn't hold, but at least nobody would go hungry. Or thirsty, for there were barrels on barrels, holding what Jaskier assumed to be beer and wine. And then there was the food, stacked in rough wooden shelves along the walls: smaller barrels and sealed clay pots, boxes and tins, bags and bottles, all filled to the brim. Then there were crates with potatoes and onions, carrots and beets, parsnips and cabbage turnips, apples and pears. Large glass jars held cherries and figs, mirabelles and quinces, all preserved in what probably were unholy amounts of alcohol. There were caskets with walnuts and hazelnuts, flour and semolina, oats and buckwheat for the kasha. It seemed that witchers liked to spend the winter eating, and it also explained why Geralt always looked suspiciously well-fed and a little less ragged whenever Jaskier met him on the path in early spring. 

Right now, though, he was busy unpacking the Hessian bags Eskel had stacked in the middle of the room. The conversation with the old witcher couldn't have taken long, given that Geralt had apparently found the time to discard his sword and swap his armour for a comfortable looking woollen tunic, and now had already unpacked the first bags. Quickly Eskel set to help him, and Jaskier tried to be useful as well. In the end he was tasked with placing things he could actually lift around the room, working in silence beyond the occasional direction Eskel or Geralt gave him. He was surprised at the variety of foodstuffs that came from the Hessian bags, and wondered why the villagepeople were still so inhospitable towards the people that probably kept the village's economy up and running with their yearly purchasing.

And then they were done, the empty Hessian bags rolled up neatly and stored away. They picked up their bags and Geralt lead the way through another corridor, pointing out the doors leading to the cool cellar parts that were worked directly into the mountain behind the fortress, offering cold storage spaces for meat and cheeses. They passed through a large kitchen that seemed to have already been set up for dinner preparations and finally reached a large staircase leading up to what had to be the entrance hall of the keep. By now it was dark, only the occasional torch lightning their way and Jaskier had to be careful not to stumble over his feet. He was still cold, tired to the bone and dealing with the nagging fear that they'd send him back to the village the next day. Nobody was talking, the silence heavy and slightly uncomfortable.

Crossing through the entrance hall they turned left and up another staircase that lead to a passageway leading to yet another staircase, and by then Jaskier was so confused that he simply stuck to Geralt's back, knowing fully well that he'd get lost if he were to be on his own for even a minute. They passed by a large corridor where Eskel left to what could only be his own room, turning a corner and vanishing in the darkness, his soft steps slowly fading out. Geralt continued to climb, then turned a right at a landing and into a corridor with only one heavy wooden door. Pushing it open he motioned for Jaskier to come in and then followed.

It had to be a guestroom, and like everything Jaskier had seen so far from Kaer Morhen it was bare and rather austere. There wasn't much: a large fireplace, mercifully with a roaring fire lit inside, two windows that were now covered by the remains of a what at some point in time must have been a beautiful tapestry but now was a moth-hole riddled relic, a rustic looking large chair carved out of wood in front of the fire with a rickety little table next to it and a bed that looked like someone who wasn't a carpenter had built it with his own hands. The stone walls were bare, the floors uneven and rough, but the bed had multiple pillows and a large blanket over a mattress that looked more comfortable than the bareness of the room would suggest. And luckily the room was slightly warmer then it had been in the draughty corridors where the wind was pushing through the stones and windows, even though the fire couldn't have been on for long and would need at least another two days to make the room actually comfortable. 

Looking around Jaskier dumped his bags next to the bed, carefully deposited the lute on top of the blankets and smiled. 

"Your guestrooms are quite charming, although in case you need a few pointers towards interior decoration I'm more than willing to offer advice. They say I have a knack for it."

Leaning in the doorframe Geralt shook his head.

"I told you our lodgings wouldn't be what you might expect. You might find yourself having to get used to it."

Sitting down in the armchair Jaskier leant back, throwing his legs over the armrest and dangling them. It was really not that bad, if just the fire would warm the room up, and there was absolutely no need for Geralt to frown this much. 

"Am already, very comfortable. Bit cold, though."

Stretching out his legs he held his feet towards the fire, waiting for his toes to thaw. When he looked up again Geralt was gone from the doorframe, having closed the door silently and vanished without a word. For a moment Jaskier wondered whether he had insulted him without really wanting to, having pointed out the flaws of Kaer Morhen too brutally. It was Geralt's home, after all, if the witcher had something like this at all, and Jaskier had just weaselled his way into it. If he was allowed to stay, that was. 

Feeling slightly guilty he got up and busied himself unpacking his few belongings. Notebook and quill went on the little table, the lute got carefully deposited next to the bed, and he had just started taking out his few items of clothing and shaking them to get the wrinkles out when he heard a knock on the door. Surprised he turned his head, and called for whoever was there to enter. 

Into the room stalked Geralt, carrying a bundle of furs he unceremoniously pushed into Jaskier's arms, who promptly dropped his linen shirt. 

"There, should keep you warm."

Surprised Jaskier took the bundle, carefully dropped them on the bed and started to untangle them, hoping to find them a far cry from the warg skins he had seen outside. And they were, all clean and brushed out recently, soft and delicately worked to be comfortable for use, most of them hunting trophies any courtier would be proud of. There was a very large bear fur, neatly brushed but thankfully without the head, soft and fluffy foxskins, a few common sheep skins, something that looked like a sable had once inhabited it and, under all of them, a perfectly preserved wolf fur from a rare albino animal. Caressing the fur Jaskier noticed that there were no moth-holes, all the skins in spotless condition, well-cared for. Sitting down on the bed he pulled the wolf skin in his lap, carding his fingers through the soft white fur, already planning how he'd distribute the skins in the room and which ones to sleep with. 

And of course he knew who probably wasn't going to sleep with any furs in his bed tonight. Jaskier stopped his examination of the wolf skin to smile at Geralt still standing in the middle of the room, watching Jaskier's obvious enjoyment with only a slightly raised eyebrow. 

"Thank you."

Nodding Geralt turned away, towards the door. 

"There will be dinner soon. I'll pick you up in a short time."

Nodding Jaskier kept brushing his hands through the white fur, realising he was very hungry. 

"So does that mean I can stay? How did your talk with the, well, the old one turn out? He's, what, the rector or your grand master here?"

Geralt was already at the door, and had to turn around again to look at Jaskier. 

"This is not a school anymore, there's no grand master or rector left. Vesemir was our fencing instructor, a long time ago. We will speak about it after dinner."

And then he was gone, leaving Jaskier to set up on his own. Quickly the room looked comfortable, with the furs distributed freely on the bed and armchair, Jaskier pausing only for a moment before he slipped the wolf skin over the pillows of the bed. He then debated if he should dress differently for dinner and settled on changing nothing. It wasn't as if he actually had any appropriate clothing for an introductory dinner at a crumbling and deadly cold castle, and he was wearing most of his possessions in an ungodly combination of layers anyway. Just to be sure he brushed his hair, took the dagger out of his boots and made sure his cornflower blue doublet was looking halfway decent. He spent the remaining time settling by the fire with his lute, strumming without any proper intention to sing, simply enjoying how the strings vibrated in the complete silence of Kaer Morhen. 

Finally Geralt arrived to pick him up, leading him down the stairs through the maze of corridors until they arrived in what functioned as the banquet hall within the keep. It was smaller than a lot of the halls Jaskier had seen, but still impressive with a high ceiling, large fireplace decorated with carved stone elements showing growing vines and winding branches - elven style, maybe? - and a heavy dark wooden table in the middle of the room, already set with five goblets and deep plates for dinner. There was a large bowl and jugs with water and ale, a covered pot with what seemed to be potatoes, baskets with bread and the room smelt wonderfully of the roaring fire and cooked meat. Eskel and Vesemir were already seated, Vesemir residing at the end of the table. Just like Geralt both had changed out of any armour they had been wearing, dressed instead in thick tunics in various earth colours, though Eskel seemed to have a clear preference for reds that clashed with the more muted browns Vesemir wore and the eternal black Geralt favoured. 

Sitting down next to Eskel and nodding his greetings Jaskier looked around the room with curiosity, only to find that most of it was hidden in the darkness and he could only determine that one of the far walls had to have a few windows, with only the blackness of the night sitting outside. It was cosy and at the same time unsettling, and Jaskier felt strangely too small for everything - the large chairs that he could have sat in twice, the heavy table and large goblets. Everything seemed to be made for people of a larger build, which made perfect sense given that he was on witcher's territory. Geralt, at the same time, maybe for the first time since Jaskier had met him didn't look out of place at all, although he was just as silent and brooding as always. 

Then the door at the side of the hall flew open with a bang, as if kicked open with determination, and in marched the fourth witcher, carrying an enormous tureen with a heavy lid on top. Grunting he set it down on the table, opened it and watched the steam rise the ceiling. 

"Boar goulash, and if anyone complains I'll skin you."

Eskel stretched his neck to peer into the tureen and looked content with what he saw. 

"Like you skinned those wargs, complaining all the time and whining? You'd do a fine job with my hide. Though the goulash smells good, I'll give you that."

Setting the lid of the tureen onto the table with more force then necessary the witcher growled an unfavourable reply, pulled out the empty chair next to Geralt and sat down, not without glaring daggers around the table and at Geralt in particular. 

"Fucking Geralt, drags home six dead wargs and then just leaves the work to me. And don't criticise my goulash, Eskel. You're all ungrateful bastards, we'll see what you'll come up with when it's your turn."

Then he fixed his eyes on Jaskier, his face still pulled into an annoyed grimace. 

"And what's this? I thought Vesemir was exaggerating. What does a human want at Kaer Morhen?"

Feeling the hairs on his neck stand up at the barely veiled antipathy Jaskier tried to smile, but faltered. Maybe that was going to be his first lesson, then: that witchers came in all different types of temper. If Geralt was the silent brooding one, Eskel the happy chipper person and Vesemir the intimidating master of course they had to have a pissed off one, and apparently he was on cooking duty that night. 

And he was young, appearing to be the youngest one at the table, though that of course said nothing about his actual age. But his face was lacking the lines around the amber eyes Geralt and Eskel already had, and even though his ashen hair was cropped short and his hairline was slightly receding he had an air of lacking a few decades about him. But there were frown lines on his forehead, crossed by a short scar, indicating that his display of temper right now wasn't quite out of character. He had neither the sharp cut jaw lines that made Eskel and Geralt look like brothers nor their high cheekbones, his rounder face giving him more similarity to Vesemir and his sturdy built. Fine scars were running all over his right hand, vanishing into the sleeves of the grey shirt peeking out from his brown leather jerkin. Otherwise he was obviously a member of the School of Wolf - broad shoulders albeit slightly slimmer in his general build, maybe a bit shorter and stocky overall, wolf medallion on display in the folds of his shirt. Maybe his amber eyes were a touch less golden and more yellow, but that was about it. 

"He's our guest, Lambert. Watch your tongue."

Geralt sounded bored, as if he had expected Lambert to throw a fit and only waited for the exact proportions of it. And, as if invited to do so, Lambert hissed back aggressively.

"Who do you think you are, not coming to Kaer Morhen one winter without a word and then just showing up the next one and bringing your personal - "

He didn't get to finish his sentence. At the speed of lightening Geralt had moved, closing his fist around Lambert's throat and choking him mid-word, leaning in very close, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Surprised Jaskier could barely surpress a yelp. He knew Geralt could move very fast if he wanted to, but he had expected witchers to be on more or less on equal level when it came to reaction speeds - and Lambert had definitely been without a chance to either avoid the attack or strike back.

"What were you going to say?"

Vesemir banged a fist on the table, making the goblets jump and causing Geralt to immediately loosen his grip and leaning back in his own chair again, gritting his teeth. 

"Silence! I should whip you both, behaving like fishwives and brawling at the table. What are you, ten years old? Geralt, get yourself together. As you've so rightly noted we have a guest. Lambert, shut up. Eskel, hand me the potatoes."

It worked wonders. There was an immediate silence at the table, Eskel reached over to hand Vesemir the potatoes while Lambert and Geralt were pointedly avoiding each other's gaze. Jaskier, having watched the whole affair while frantically trying to keep his mouth from gaping, could barely conceal his hysterics. Geralt was notoriously difficult to provoke, and Jaskier had expected everything but not seeing him lose his temper in such a childish and inappropriate fit of violence. 

On the other hand these dynamics, this whole strange interaction seemed eerily familiar because Jaskier had grown up with an older brother and a sister, and he had never met anyone else who was able to make him lose his temper so quickly and so thoroughly.

Witchers didn't have anything resembling a family, Geralt had said. They were strangers to sibling rivalries, knew nothing about bickering at the table like imbecile eight-year-olds, had no intention to pointlessly go at each other's throat and, of course, they had neither emotions nor fits of temper. They also never, ever lied, not to their travelling-companions-and-favourite-bard and for sure never to themselves. Across the table Jaskier caught Eskel's gaze, and was amused to find the calm witcher grin and wink at him. 

Surprisingly the rest of their dinner passed peacefully. Everybody was focused mostly on the rather excellent goulash - perfectly seasoned for the strong boar flavour Jaskier liked - and the rare conversation that popped up was mainly carried by Vesemir and Eskel, who were discussing everything from the weather to the plans for the winter, with the occasional comment from Lambert and brooding silence from Geralt. Jaskier learnt that they were expecting massive snowfall within the next two weeks, rendering Kaer Morhen inaccessible for the entire winter, and that two more witchers, Coën and Milos, were due to arrive before that. Eskel seemed a bit worried about them travelling too slow to reach the fortress before the snow, but Vesemir seemed confident that especially Milos knew the terrain well and would guide them safely.

Dinner passed quickly and the gathering moved to the library, another room on the list of places Jaskier would probably never find again if left to his own devices. Which would have been a pity, as the library turned out to be unexpectedly beautiful. A two-storied room, walls covered with the living tapestry of endless shelves filled with thick tomes bound in blacks and browns on both levels, the ornate carved ceiling floating somewhere above them in the darkened distance. The room was smaller than the hall, the chairs more comfortable, set in a circle turned towards the fire in a slightly smaller fireplace that still gave enough warmth to heat the room to what finally were temperatures humans could be comfortable in. There were furs and thick carpets on the ground, and just off to the right of the fireplace stood something like a camp bed, a folding structure made out of leather and wood, with more furs draped over it. It looked like the perfect place to curl up and sleep, close to the source of heat and light, while listening to conversation and enjoying the cosy atmosphere of the room, and made Jaskier remember his tiredness just from looking at it.

Reminding himself that his status as a guest wasn't yet confirmed he pulled himself out of the encroaching stupor. Invited by Vesemir to pick a chair he settled close to the fire and pondered how this room could be so comfortable when the rest of Kaer Morhen seemed austere and cold. Stretching his feet towards the warmth he watched the others settle in, minus Lambert who was busy in the kitchen. Vesemir took the armchair opposite Jaskier, apparently having by age and authority a right to be close to the fire, while Geralt and Eskel were collecting goblets and bottles from a cabinet before joining them. 

Taking the offered goblet Jaskier looked at the cloudy liquid inside, noting that his glass was far less filled then the one Geralt offered Vesemir. Sniffing he tried to figure out what he was looking at, and came short at a good comparison. The only thing he was sure of was that it consisted mostly of hard liquor, and that he maybe should be a bit careful around it.

Vesemir watched him, seemingly amused. He had relaxed during dinner, his authoritative stance softening the longer the dinner progressed without further incidents. Now he leant back in his chair, amber eyes warm in the firelight. It was the first time he was looking at Jaskier with anything but passing interest.

"Why do you want to spent the winter at Kaer Morhen?"

It was a direct question, and Jaskier immediately knew he'd better be telling the truth. So he explained, not sparing himself in the description of how he had ended up in the King's Fancy Lady's bed, how the king had thrown a fit and subsequently thrown Jaskier out of basically anywhere. How he had been stranded in Kaedwen and needed help, and how he had remembered Kaer Morhen. What he didn't tell Vesemir, of course, was his slightly ethnological interest in witchers in general, where they came from, how they wanted to live when they were away from the overwhelming pressure of conforming to human society.

It seemed though that maybe Vesemir entertained the same ethnological interest as Jaskier did, just vice versa. At least that's what Jaskier took from his examining gaze, again weighing, comparing, looking at Jaskier's colourful silk, his slim shoulders and unmarred skin. He knew he looked as if he had danced out of a portal right into the library at Kaer Morhen, and he wondered if it amused Vesemir or annoyed him. 

"Geralt told me a few things about you. And I heard that song."

It didn't sound as if Vesemir was particularly fond of that song - oh, and Jaskier knew exactly which one - but he knew it! Just like Eskel had! That was good. Well, almost. 

"Ah, but you haven't heard me sing it. Surely your impression has been tainted by a less talented interpretation."

To his left he heard Eskel choke on his drink, snorting ungraciously. Geralt, seated on Vesemir's right hand, only rolled his eyes and buried any comment in the goblet he was lifting to his lips. 

"That will not be necessary, although I'm sure we will find time to appreciate your talent."

Vesemir's voice was dry, but at least he seemed willing to give Jaskier a chance. 

"Does that mean I can stay?"

For a moment Vesemir looked into the fire before glancing at Jaskier.

"I propose a period of trial. A week, Bard. Afterwards we will decide if you can stay for the entire winter. Should you desire to leave after this or we decide to decline the pleasure of your company Geralt will guide you through the forest and ensure your safe return to the village. But you have to know that when the snow comes nobody will leave Kaer Morhen until spring. Are you aware of what that means?"

Jaskier nodded, understanding that this was the best answer he could have hoped for. Relaxing his shoulders he tried to look as confident as possible. 

"Yes, I think I do. But I'm sure I will fit right in, after having some time to get used to the cold. Us humans are actually a very adaptable species."

For a moment Vesemir looked at him with incredulity before turning his head and focusing on the fire.

"I know more about your species than you ever will. But what do you know of us? Look around."

He motioned around the room and Jaskier looked, taking inventory. Vesemir, Eskel and Geralt all sat in perfect stillness, comfortable and relaxed, and yet with a certain tension betraying the possibilities that lay beneath the calm surface. In some uncanny way it was suddenly obvious that they were breathing less frequently, that their hearts beat much slower, canines slightly elongated, pupils enlarged in the half-dark of the room. For an absurd second Jaskier felt like prey surrounded by three apex predators, creatures whom he could not fight nor outrun, at whose mercy he would be for as long as he stayed within Kaer Morhen and who he could not properly comprehend even if he tried to. Shuddering with the realisation he felt the cool pool of fear in his stomach, swallowing too much spit. 

And then the moment was gone, broken by mundane details: how Eskel crossed his legs while balancing his goblet on the armrest of his chair, Geralt tucked a strand of stubborn white hair back behind his ear, Vesemir cleared his throat. Without knowing why he had held his breath Jaskier exhaled, slowly, controlled. Still it felt as if he had seen something underneath a veneer of humanity he had always known was there, had dabbled with but never truly thought about. And, sweet Melitele, wasn't that what he wanted - this thrill of dancing with something he couldn't really calculate, the little element of risk that he'd end up torn between the canines of something far more powerful than an ordinary human could ever be, swallowed by burning amber?

Vesemir, having watched him with intent focus all the time, smiled slightly unnervingly. 

"I see you understand what I mean."

Then he raised his goblet in Jaskier's direction and they drank to his first night in Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that two chapters are always connected via the titles - those form a little bit of an unit. Most titles are quotes, and will be attributed to their original source as soon as the line of the poem or song is completed with the appropriate amount of chapters.


	4. And now the wolves / and now the loyality of wolves

He awoke with a start, disoriented and with shivers running down his spine. For a moment the room refused to stop spinning, round and round in circles while being soaked in total darkness. The air around him was cool, tasting different from anything he knew. There was wind howling outside, loud, pushing against windows he couldn't quite locate. The bed was unfamiliar, and he groped around for a moment, hands searching for a clue in the dark. All he found was rough wood, soft fur, bed sheets drenched with sweat and now deadly cold. His heart pounding in his chest while his stomach made attempts to leave his body through his throat he tried to think. But his head was nothing but a weirdly floating acculumation of unsteady thoughts, blood rushing in his ears. 

Reaching out frantically he found the wall, and turning to the other side empty air. And then, finally, somewhere in the vicinity of his pillows his fingertips brushed over something he knew - cool wood, polished, perfectly shaped. His fingernails got caught in a string and he heard the sound vibrate. 

It was as if the note had broken a spell. Suddenly he could open his eyes properly, remembered to breathe, in and out. The vanishing sound took a good amount of the panic with it - not the clenching stomach nor the pounding head, but the confusion and irrational fear. In and out, he reminded himself, steady, just breathe. 

Slowly he calmed down, and with his composure recognition of his surroundings returned. Suddenly the room came into focus, not completely dark - how had it felt so dark, seconds earlier, when there were still embers glowing in the fireplace? Now he could see, the shadow of the chair, the windows with the heavy tapestry softly moving under the onslaught of the storm. The howling outside remained, different on the stones of Kaer Morhen than it had been over the flimsy wooden roof of the inn just two nights ago. 

He was cold, shivering. The dying fire hadn't been giving any warmth for a while now. Throwing aside the heap of blanket and furs he had buried himself under he sat up, feet dangling over the side of the bed for a moment. The hangover hit him hard, a wave of nausea. He'd never drink again, oh no, not a single sip. Especially not this strange liquor they had given him, possibly a fun drink for witchers, but not any good for humans, not even for a human with Jaskier's tolerance for alcohol, trained in years of visiting the infamous taverns of Oxenfurt. 

The cool air in the room calmed his queasiness a bit, but it didn't do much for the headache and his still fluttering pulse. Sitting and breathing seemed to be his best bet, and then rekindle the fire and crawl back into bed. There was a small stack of firewood next to the fireplace, neatly chopped into suitable sizes and properly dried. It wouldn't take long, all he needed was a match. There had to be some around, possibly on the mantelshelf, where every sensible folk kept their matches. 

Just that witchers didn't use matches. It took Jaskier almost five minutes of searching, his bare feet rapidly freezing on the cold stones to realise the mistake in his thought process. Of course they didn't have matches, not when they could simply focus and cast a sign and be done with it. Gritting his teeth Jaskier sat down on the bed again, pulling his feet up. There were matches in the small waterproof bag he kept attached to his saddle, and he knew exactly where that bag was - in the stables, with all the other tack. He had forgotten to take one of his most important bags with him, thinking it unnecessary. Small mistakes toppled giants, he had always known. Cursing he flopped back onto his bed, into the mass of furs, burrowing back into it. But their warmth was already evaporating, and within minutes Jaskier was shivering. 

It did nothing for his headache. Minutes passed and the nausea returned as well, and by now he was done with it. There was no way he was going to go back to sleep like this. From experience he knew that his body took well to walking headaches off, but he couldn't just stroll in circles around the armchair. Just to be sure he tried, untangling himself from the furs and abandoning the bed for good. He dressed, sloppily with a focus on warmth instead of how well his clothes went together - not that anyone cared, not that anyone would see - and started to carefully move around the room. It did the job, but it got boring quickly. 

So maybe he should go down to the stables and look for the bag, breathe some fresh air while he was at it? Or just move around the fortress a bit, explore? The fresh air would do him good, and what point was there staying in his room anyway? Briskly he turned, walked over to the heavy door and was out in the dark corridor. Instead of turning to the staircase as he had earlier with Geralt he took a right and walked down the other way. The night air was fresh and cold, and his headache seemed to decrease with every step. Through the windows he could see the moon outside, stars in a sky where clouds were racing. Stopping for a moment he watched the dark forest surrounding the fortress, how the moonlight was weak but strong enough to enable him to see the outline of the landscape - hills, the river bed of the Gwenllech, and in the distance the high peaks of the Blue Mountains. It was beautiful to just stand there and savour the view for a moment. Then he moved on, suddenly bold in his desire to explore.

Minutes later he found himself on a staircase that didn't seem to lead anywhere, and the darkness engulfed him again. Out of nowhere he was surrounded by the pitch black night where moments ago there had still been moonlight, the stairs above and below similarly invisible. Palms pressed to the stone wall he stood frozen, wondering how this was even possible, and realised he didn't know whether he had come from above or below. Had he been descending? Telling himself he was imagining things he took another step, thinking he had been going up so he now had to go down to find his way back. He couldn't see anything, his hands on the rough wall the only thing that guided him. Step by step he kept on descending, and the air seemed to get colder with every passing second. 

Suddenly the wall was gone and he fell. Not far, only until his entire body hit another wall again, scraping elbows and hands on the stone. His heart hammering in his ears he frantically fumbled around, wondering what this exactly was. Then he realised it had to be a cove in the wall, rather large, maybe used for a decorative element like a statue back in the day, when Kaer Morhen was more than just this sad ruin. Now whatever had been there was gone, leaving enough space for Jaskier to have fallen into it, hitting the back wall uncomfortably.

For a moment desperation threatened to overwhelm him. He was tired and colder by the minute, disoriented and afraid. It didn't help that the howling of the wind seemed to get louder and louder, mocking his quick breathing. 

And then he noticed that he wasn't alone. He couldn't explain how he knew or why, but there was - something. Within the thick darkness something moved, towards him, sensing where he was without him making any sound. It was less knowledge or reaction but more feeling, visceral panic suddenly taking hold that was far beyond the mild hysteria he had felt before. Every inch of his body told him to run or at least try to hide, and he pressed himself against the stone wall, hoping to melt into it, to vanish before whatever was dragging this darkness around with it found him. 

He wasn't sure if he had actually screamed or if something else had vibrated through the air. One second the darkness was growing more and more viscous and then he saw a flash of white out of the corner of his eyes, Geralt standing on the stairs, moonlight casting shadows over his angular face. 

"Jaskier, what the hell are you doing here?"

He sounded incredulous, with a hint of anger in his voice. For a moment Jaskier considered throwing himself at Geralt in senseless relief, discarding the thought quickly again. He had done it before, it wasn't an issue of pride - but the last time he had almost been eaten by a harpy, and that had felt more like an occasion for panicked embraces than just the odd nightmare in the middle of a strange fortress. 

So he simply peeled himself off the wall, feeling the scratch of the stone against his clothing and the grazes on his hands and elbows.

"Taking a walk, and suddenly it was very dark."

He realised he was still sounding slightly hysterical, panic having seeped into his voice. Deep lines appeared on Geralt's face, and he stepped closer. 

"Are you alright?"

Of course, the heartbeat had given Jaskier away, his most treacherous organ announcing his fear for the entire world to know, especially when the entire world was a slightly tired looking witcher with tense shoulders and eyes so dark there was barely a hint of amber visible anymore. Shakily Jaskier exhaled, and tried to nod. 

"Yes, no, I don't - did you not see the dark? It was pitch black, seconds ago."

Now Geralt was looking as if he was beginning to worry. He threw questioning glances up and down the staircase, and Jaskier followed his gaze and saw the moonlight falling through the windows. It didn't make sense, but damn it, he had seen it! 

"It's in the middle of the night, I would be more worried if it weren’t dark.“

Shaking his head frantically Jaskier realised that he sounded as if he was three steps away from losing his mind. 

"Not just dark, there was no light anymore. You must have felt something, it was here just seconds ago. How could you not see it?"

How could the famous witcher senses not have picked up on whatever it was Jaskier had almost fallen prey to?

Frowning Geralt shook his head. 

"You know I can see in the dark. Come, let me walk you back to your room. It seems the White Gull was maybe a bit too harsh on you."

Willingly Jaskier moved from the cove, allowing Geralt to take the lead. It turned out he should have gone up instead of down, and that he must have walked quite a bit before ending up on that particular staircase. He had no recollection of most of the corridors they passed through, half of them abandoned and empty looking. Still nervous Jaskier kept on looking around, for movement, for any sign of something foul at play, but there was nothing but their steps on the stones echoing through the silence of the night. 

Finally they reached the door to Jaskier's room, and stopped. It was slightly ajar, and Jaskier realised that his room now had to be much colder than before. 

"Thank you for escorting me back. I might have gotten a bit lost there, Kaer Morhen is such a damn labyrinth. Can you do me the favour and light the fire again? It went out, and there's nothing here to light it."

It was a reasonable request, and Geralt acquiesced easily. It took him all but two minutes to rebuilt the fire and cast Ignii, the flames suddenly licking up the logs and filling the room with merciful warm light. Sitting down on the bed Jaskier felt his heartbeat finally calm down, soothed by the light and Geralt's unshakable presence. For a moment both looked at the small fire, Jaskier with his hands on his knees and Geralt still crouched in front of the fireplace. The flames cast him in a gentle glow, his hair more ivory than white, eyes having already adjusted to the flickering light, becoming amber again.

"Why are you awake?"

Geralt looked up from the fire, and standing up turned to leave. 

"You shouldn't take walks around Kaer Morhen at night alone."

It was typical for Geralt not to answer a question he didn't like, but Jaskier knew him and his sleeplessness very well by now. 

"Don't have plans to do that again anytime soon."

Rubbing his hands over his knees he felt how thin his breeches were already worn. The fabric was scratching against the grazes on his hands, the sting of the small injuries clearing his head. He watched Geralt nod once, and then walk to the door. 

The next words were out of his mouth before he could do anything against their escape, fuelled only by the knowledge that he didn't want to be alone, not even with the fire on. What if the darkness returned?

"You know you could stay." 

He was instantly embarrassed, dropping his gaze to his hands still lying on his knees. 

"Since when can you not sleep on your own anymore?"

There was something harsh in Geralt's voice and the gaze over his shoulder, and Jaskier kept looking at his hands. 

"There was something here, that - that darkness."

He had no idea if what he said was the thing that made Geralt turn around or the emotion in his voice. With a sigh he came back, standing in the middle of the room again, his shadow lingering over Jaskier.

"Jaskier, White Gull has a few hallucinogenic components. We should have never offered it to you, but I didn't know you'd react to it like this. It won't happen again."

Well, that explained a lot. 

"Wait, what? Are you telling me your witcher alcohol send me on a trip and you didn't even tell me it would?"

He couldn't believe it. Here he was, thinking he was losing it, thinking the fucking night itself was coming for his hide, and all that was actually happening was him tripping hard on whatever it was witchers used to trick their complicated biology into kicking their imagination up a notch. Abandoning the worrying at his poor innocent trousers he looked up, glaring daggers at Geralt, who at least had the good sense to look slightly guilty. 

"Didn't know you would react - fuck, I didn't think about it."

Crossing his arms in front of his chest Jaskier made it clear he wasn't going to accept that as an apology anytime soon. 

"Do you even know what it feels like to get blown out of your mind like this? I could have gone insane!“

Raising an eyebrow Geralt indicated that he thought Jaskier was a little bit exaggerating, maybe, but Jaskier was having none of it.

"How long is it going to last? Dear gods above, are you even real?"

Now Geralt rolled his eyes, a clear sign that if he wasn't real he was at least a very in-character-hallucination. 

"Calm down, it will be fine. No idea how long you'll feel anything. What you drank was diluted, it can easily have already worn off."

Remembering the feeling of being flooded by the thick darkness crawling into his body through his eyes and ears Jaskier was very sure it hadn't. But that also meant the feeling could come back, and even if he now knew that it was only his mind being confused by whatever substance the witchers put into their little party drinks it would be scary. 

"Well, just in case I don't want to be alone. It's your fault, you can at least make up for it with staying."

He made sure to not phrase it like a request, earning a slightly exasperated growl in return. 

"Oh no, no growling at me. This is your fault, you even admitted as much. You can sleep in the bed with me or wherever, but you're not leaving me to this again."

He didn't actually expect it to work.

"Jaskier, there's - " For some reason Geralt stopped mid-sentence, seeing Jaskier's raised eyebrow, crossed arms and general stance that made it obvious he wasn't going to back down. And to Jaskier's surprise he didn't just turn around and storm out of the room. 

"Fine, if you insist."

Surprised Jaskier dropped his arms, automatically placing his hands on his knees again. Geralt didn't sound happy, but there were a few things Jaskier knew about him, and one was that he was terrifiyingly easy to guilt trip if one only invoked his ethics. He had woven himself a net made out of hard moral codes and ethical decisions, lines he would not cross no matter how hard he was being pushed or pulled, and Jaskier had quickly realised that it was easy to just trip him and watch him entangle himself helplessly within this web of his own making. It was cruel knowledge, and Jaskier tried to use it not too often, being acutely aware that all those morals and ethics were nothing but a reaction to the world considering Geralt to be nothing more than a lawless animal controlled by instinct and greed instead of what actually was cold rationality and an almost alarming need to do the right thing no matter the cost. But desperate times required strategic manipulation, and having the horror trip of one's life did count as desperate indeed.

"Knew you'd come around. Where do you want to sleep?"

Looking around the room Geralt seemed to weigh his options. Finally he settled for a spot in front of the fire, moved the armchair a little to the side and settled down on his knees, his back turned towards the wall, not too close to the fire, in the position he favoured for meditation. 

"No sleeping?"

Silently he shook his head, and Jaskier considered this as a sign that their conversation was over. Quickly he rose from where he had sat on the bed, slipping out of most of his layers, carefully folding them and then returning to the bed. Crawling into the mountain of sheets and furs he needed a moment to arrange everything around him, turned towards the fireplace with its warm glow. From where he lay he could see Geralt's profile, sharp edges softened by the dancing flames, eyes already closed. He sat perfectly comfortable in a pose that made Jaskier's legs ache just from watching, his hands easy on his knees, palms turned up, fingers relaxed, perfectly still and silent. 

Witcher meditation was still a mystery to Jaskier, no matter how many times he watched Geralt sink into the deep layers of his mind with such practised ease. The one thing he knew was that it was a privilege to watch him do it, which he had gathered mostly because it had taken nearly two years of travelling together until he had been allowed anywhere near Geralt while he was meditating. Jaskier assumed it had something to do with vulnerability. Geralt could move from the deepest sleep to battle-ready within the blink of an eye, but resurfacing from meditation could take a while, depending on how deep he had allowed himself to sink under the surface. 

Jaskier knew that Geralt's heartbeat, already so much slower than his own, would calm down further, that he'd breathe only rarely now, adding to the sense of complete and utter stillness. He could well have just been a statue, if he weren't indeed sometime still breathing, every inhale and exhale slightly moving his still tense shoulders.

It didn't take long for the sense of calm to seep into Jaskier's body as well. With the warmth slowly building up within his burrow of blankets and furs he felt his body relax, and slowly drifted off. He slept deep and soundly, and the creeping darkness did not return. 

The next morning he awoke when sunlight streamed into the room. Blinking furiously he buried his face into the furs, pulling the blankets over his head. When he resurfaced after a few moments of hiding the windows had both been opened, allowing fresh air into the room, the tapestries thrown back. Sunlight fell into the room, and Geralt was poised in one of the large windows, the thick walls of Kaer Morhen offering enough space for him to fit into the opening if he just crouched down a little bit. He didn't look particularly relaxed or well-rested, even after a few hours of meditation, his pale face serious, the stubble on his chin doing nothing to make him look less tired. Jaskier, on the other hand, was warm and comfortable now, and looking forward to breakfast. 

"Good morning."

Turning his head away from whatever he had been watching out of the window - probably a hare hopping on the mountains opposite, damn his witcher sight - he examined Jaskier's sleepy face. 

"And did your hallucinations come back?"

Yawning Jaskier shook his head, stretching lazily. 

"Of course not, you were here."

Rolling his eyes Geralt leant over to close the window again, gracefully unfurled his limbs and slid down from the window. 

"Don't let it become a habit. I'll go down for breakfast, if you care to join me."

He didn't have to offer breakfast twice, and barely ten minutes later Jaskier was dressed and following Geralt down the stairs, not without offering him to stop by his own rooms so he could change, which only earned Jaskier a raised eyebrow in return. He hadn't quite expected Geralt to suddenly indulge in various wardrobe changes just because he wasn't on the road anymore, but surely he had to own more than one set of clothes and some armour?

Musing over this Jaskier didn't notice where they were going, blindly following Geralt down the staircase into the entrance hall. They were crossing it towards what Jaskier assumed was the kitchen he had already seen last night when Vesemir emerged from another archway, meeting them halfway. Seeing him for the first time in actual daylight revealed a few more old scars on his face, his hair a slightly more intense grey than it had been the previous night in the light of torches and fire. He again wore armour and a sword on his back, steel from the look of the hilt, glinting in the morning light.

"Where are you going?"

Apparently manners just weren't fashionable in Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier barely suppressed a sigh, smiling instead.

"Good morning! Geralt was just accompanying me to breakfast."

He knew he sounded too chipper, but the prospect of a good hot beverage and something between his teeth was just too good to not be happy about it. He felt remarkably better now the sun was out, his blood free of alcohol and whatever that damn White Gull exactly was. But Vesemir didn't even look at Jaskier, his eyes fixed on Geralt, his gaze not exactly benevolent. 

"You are not going to breakfast."

Geralt tilted his head. "Am I not?"

Vesemir turned to Jaskier, his voice slightly less growling, adjusted to be less offending.

"You will find the kitchen at the end of the second staircase. Eskel is there, he'll show you around."

He pointed towards the archway he had mentioned, leaving no room for any objections. Geralt only shrugged, apparently himself without any idea what Vesemir wanted, and Jaskier decided to follow the good advice. 

"Well, I'll see you later then."

Smiling he nodded at Vesemir, and walked towards the archway he had been pointed towards. The staircase went down just fine, turning once, and as soon as Jaskier was out of sight he pressed himself against the stone wall, listening. The entrance hall had a high ceiling, and voices echoed. It was almost too easy. 

"What is this about?"

Geralt sounded calm, but not too amused.

"What did you do last night?"

It turned out to be merely a rhetorical question, because Vesemir continued immediately. 

"I will tell you what you did last night. You were prowling this castle, like a caged animal, and you've done that ever since you arrived in Kaer Morhen. I will not tolerate this, Geralt. I will not have you around like this, egging on the others, taking your nervousness out on them. You can't jump at Lambert's throat like this, no matter what he wanted to say and if it was a wise choice. And what will be when the snow comes and we're all holed up here together? Will you rip someone apart for an idle glance?"

From the way his voice echoed Jaskier imagined him moving around, not standing still, probably pacing.

"You know - "

Vesemir hissed. 

"Shut up. I know exactly, which is why we are talking. Everyone gets nervous when the snow comes, we cannot avoid what is our nature. I can have the others pace and prowl, but not you, and especially not already in autumn. Bringing it in from the outside, did you think I wouldn't notice?"

There was silence again, and then Vesemir growled. 

"Have you forgotten how well I know you? Six wargs, you fucking liar. You can take down six wargs with closed eyes, they would never get far enough to injure you like this. And bringing six dead wargs back for Lambert to skin, that was asking for trouble. I don't take well to being deceived, and I can't tolerate troublemakers at Kaer Morhen."

Listening with bated breath Jaskier tried to put the piece together. Why would Geralt lie about the amount of wargs that attacked him? It didn't make sense. 

"So what do you propose to solve the issue?"

Geralt sounded restrained, but the tension was audible in his voice. He wasn't denying anything.

"Get it out of your system, now. Go upstairs, get a fucking sword on your back and leave the fortress. Run the trail, climb a mountain, hunt something for our dinner or find yourself more wargs, I don't care. Remember that you can't deny the wolf, and if it needs to run you have to let it go. But when you come back I want you exhausted and under tight control again. You are dangerous like this, and I can't allow it."

There was silence, and apparently Vesemir had stopped his pacing. 

"And you brought a human here. He needs to know what he's dealing with as long as he can still leave. If he finds out what he really got himself stuck with when the snow is here there will be chaos. This is on you, Geralt. So accept the responsibility you put upon your own shoulders and do what you have to do. Get the fuck out of the fortress, and do it now before it is too late."

Nobody said anything, but then someone turned around and walked off, breaking into a swift run as soon as they had reached the stairs. There was no doubt Geralt had taken the good advice Vesemir had given him, and while Jaskier would have loved to ponder what exactly had happened he suddenly realised that he wasn't supposed to be on the staircase any longer and would be found out any minute. 

Trying to be as discreet as possible while creeping downwards Jaskier arrived in the large kitchen he had passed through earlier just in time. It looked different in daylight, the windows on the outer wall letting the morning light come in and giving a view of this side of the inner courtyard. The fire in the stove was crackling merrily, and a large pot with what smelled like kasha was set next to it to keep warm. The fireplace had been lit as well, heating the room up pleasantly. Eskel stood at one of the work tables, cutting apples and throwing them into a pot that sat waiting, handling the kitchenknife with as much lightness as if it were a sharp dagger. He was already looking at the archway that Jaskier appeared out of, halfway between amused and surprised. 

"Good morning, Bard. What are you doing there, creeping down the staircase? Eavesdropping, were you not."

Without being able to do anything against it Jaskier blushed. Witcher hearing, he'd just never get used to it. Eskel only laughed, focusing on the apples again. 

"Don't worry, we're all nosey here. Kasha?"

Jaskier nodded and then was about to voice his disbelief with that particular statement - he had never met anyone who was less interested in gossip just for the sake of it than Geralt was - when Eskel looked up from his apples and towards the windows. Seconds later Jaskier heard it, too: the fast steps of someone running at full speed, emerging from one of the archways and crossing the courtyard. He was at the window just seconds behind Eskel, barely on time to watch Geralt climbing to the highest point of the outer defence walls with downright alarming agility and speed, using the gaps between the stones as convenient handholds and steps. He had discarded his woollen tunic, wearing only what Jaskier assumed were thin layers of an old black shirt and breeches, no armour, sword solidly sitting on his back. In no time he had reached the top, vaulting over it and disappeared from sight in a blur of flying white hair, arms spread while falling freely. Surprised Jaskier stared out of the window, the courtyard now calm and empty. Eskel didn't seem surprised, only shrugging and returning to his apples. 

Minutes later they were seated opposite each other on the benches at the long wooden table in the middle of the kitchen, bowls of steaming kasha in front of them. Large clay pots with lids held various types of preserved fruits, and just from lifting the pots to decide which one to pick Jaskier knew they were soaked in terrifying amounts of alcohol following local custom. He sniffed at them, suddenly suspicious after his adventures of the previous night. Eskel watched him with visible amusement. 

"There's no White Gull in there, right?"

Grinning Eskel pulled one of the pots towards himself. 

"Absolutely not, that would be a waste. It's vodka, mostly, rum with the cherries, brought here all the way from the coast, proper Skellige rum. Had a bad night?"

Shrugging Jaskier decided not to divulge all of his secrets and opted for the cherries. For a moment they both ate in silence, giving Jaskier the opportunity to multitask between eating and looking around. The kitchen was surprisingly clean and well-kept, large and welcoming looking. The smell of the bubbling pot where the apples were slowly turning into mush was comforting, strangely ordinary. Every tavern or humble kitchen in a cottage could smell like this, and somehow he hadn't expected Kaer Morhen to have such pockets of common pleasure. 

It was only Eskel who would have looked out of place in pretty much every other environment. By now Jaskier had come to the conclusion that Eskel was a rare breed of witcher, mild mannered and less prone to fits of indecipherable behaviour, more human in his traits and behavior. Briefly Jaskier mused how life on the path was for someone like that, how people reacted to him, if he had it more difficult or easier because of his friendly temperament. But if he was honest with himself he knew the answer. It took one look at Eskel's disfigured face to know how humans would react to him, how they would treat him. He had seen enough of that with Geralt, who, albeit obviously different, wasn't exactly as strange looking as Eskel as soon as one got over the unusual haircolour. 

He would have continued his musings had not Vesemir appeared out of the same archway Jaskier had stumbled through. He looked at the bubbling pot with an approving glance, and joined them at the table, turning down the offer of kasha. 

Eskel, already finished with his breakfast, leaned towards him. 

"Am I right to assume that Geralt won't be back until nightfall?"

Vesemir nodded, looking at Jaskier. 

"If he knows what's good for him. And I assume no one has properly shown you around yet?"

Jaskier nodded, feeling strangely timid under Vesemir's gaze. The aura of authority he radiated was impossible to ignore, and every move and gesture made it obvious that it was him who ruled over Kaer Morhen and all its inhabitants. The fact that he had been able to basically force Geralt out of the fortress for the day spoke volumes, especially since Jaskier knew exactly how stubborn Geralt could be, impossible to push around or command. 

So it was Vesemir who took Jaskier on a walk through the fortress, after Eskel had promised to later show him the surrounding area on a ride that would give the horses and them time to breathe some fresh air. They left the kitchen together, Jaskier immediately regretting his decision as soon as he followed Vesemir up the staircase, out of the warm glow of the stove and fire into the uninviting cold of the corridors and hallways.

If Jaskier had hoped to understand the layout of Kaer Morhen if he were just shown around properly his hopes soon turned out to be in vain. The fortress was a veritable labyrinth, corridors and staircases sometimes ending nowhere, some parts of it having fallen into complete disrepair. It was obvious that even the keep itself had suffered severe damage during the siege, and that the few witchers left had restored only the areas they were using regularly.

There were entire wings slowly sinking down under the weight of the destruction, corridors where the walls were crumbling, gaping holes in the floor. The cold wind was howling mercilessly through broken windows and openings in the walls. Vesemir pointed these areas out as structurally unsound, warning Jaskier not to venture into large parts of the fortress. Nevertheless they passed through a few of them, and Jaskier learnt that those had formerly been used to house the boys and adolescents sent to Kaer Morhen to become witchers one day. There were entire rooms with abandoned furniture and empty beds, a huge hall that had been used for dining, a large kitchen formerly tasked with supplying food for all these people, everything now left to the ravages of time. And somehow this touched Jaskier even more than the torn apart tapestries had, these reminders that Kaer Morhen used to be a lively place, with chatter in the courtyard and a sense of home for so many people.

All of it was lost now, having gone up in flames, nothing left of it but ashes, broken skeletons of furniture and dust. Its remains were off limits to Jaskier, and he briefly wondered whether he was banned from these areas so he wouldn't get killed by a falling wall or because he wasn't supposed to see these reminders of what was long past now, if the witchers wanted to keep whatever they had left away from prying eyes, especially after it had been humans who had wrenched their secrets from their hands once and utterly destroyed everything they could reach. Jaskier had seen enough people guard the corpse of a loved one with their life, and he understood the gut-wrenching feeling behind it. He wasn't sure which of the two possibilities was true, and he couldn't find it in himself to ask. 

But there were other areas of the fortress that were off limits as well. Apparently a rather large part of Kaer Morhen was underground, carved into the stone of the mountains it sat on, a whole system of cavernous rooms and tunnels that Vesemir strictly forbade Jaskier to ever go into, making very clear that he'd never find out of it again if he ventured this far. Duly Jaskier promised never to even try and explore, secretly pondering whether he could ask Geralt or, maybe easier, Eskel for a tour. 

Then they moved on into the areas that were still in use, most of which Jaskier already knew and which now started to be easier to remember the exact location of. Vesemir guided him through the banquet hall they had taken dinner in last night, through the library, indicated who lived behind which door. It turned out that Geralt's room was rather close to Jaskier's own, with Eskel living just one floor lower. There were a few storage rooms on the same level, and Jaskier was surprised when Vesemir opened the door to one and ushered him inside. 

On the walls of the room were shelves, and upon them rows and rows of wooden chests, each with delicate metalwork for decoration, larger ones on the lower shelves, smaller ones on top. There were some empty spots where a few of them were missing, seemingly removed recently judging from the lack of dust where they had sat. Vesemir pulled one of the largest ones from the lower shelves and opened it, the scent of lavender immediately in the air. 

Peering into the chest with curiosity Jaskier was surprised to see fabric. Clothing items were stacked upon each other, neatly folded, with small bags of lavender tucked carefully between the layers to keep hungry moths out. Vesemir seemed to approve of what he saw, standing up and motioning at the chest. 

"You need clothes, Bard. Kaer Morhen is cold, and it will get much colder. Take what you need, save your own finery for spring. It's not the latest fashion, but it will serve you well."

Surprised Jaskier stared at him and the chest. He wasn't fond of the idea of abandoning his sense of style, not even here, but - well, Vesemir was right. He had been cold for days now, and since nobody could appreciate his fashion sense here anyway why not at least get comfortable? With the silent hope that not everything in this chest consisted of leather in muted colours he dived right in, pulling out garment after garment, shaking it open and deciding what to take. 

As he had expected there was a lot of leather, which did make sense considering how sturdy and well suited to a witcher’s lifestyle it was. But there were also other garments: soft shirts and padded tunics to be worn under armour, jerkins and vests, things made out of cotton, wool and linen. All items were generally utilitarian, but there was the odd embroidery, the unexpected beautifully ruffled cuff. It was obvious that these things had belonged to various owners over time. Everything was well worn but meticulously mended, most things showing signs of having been altered at one point to fit someone new. But everything was carefully cleaned, folded with precision, all the buttons present, all loose ties lovingly tied up. And a surprising amount of these things looked as if they would fit just fine on Jaskier's tall and sinewy body.

"Whose things are these?"

Vesemir was leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed in front of his chest, watching Jaskier's careful investigation of the clothing with mild interest. 

"That shouldn't be of any concern to you. Take what you need."

There was the recommendation to not ask further questions in his voice, and Jaskier heeded the warning. So he took things, enough to put together a few serviceable outfits. It took a while to find breeches that could possibly work, that would fit on his slim hips, and he took two or three belts just case. There were a few undershirts he liked, thick cotton, soft from years of washing, sleeves long enough to cover Jaskier's long arms sufficiently. He took a few more shirts for good measure - mostly light grey, in a style very similar to the one Geralt always preferred - and two thick wool tunics with hoods in dark green and black. A thick leather jacket made out of lamb skin, the warm fur on the inside neatly brushed and the outside in a pleasing light brown would do well to protect him from the cold.

Pulling out the jacket he caught a glimpse of cerulean blue and silver embroidery tucked under stacks of brown and black. Carefully pulling it turned out to be a longer cut tunic, long sleeved, with a round neckline. Around the neck delicate silver embroidery was worked into the fabric in a fine knot design, branching out around over the collarbone area in an intricate design that spilled out over the shoulder seams. The cuffs were a similarly decorated, with little leaves flowering within the complicated knots. It was a beautiful work, and the embroidery was still in excellent condition, just like the colour of the shirt that had held up despite having been washed often. 

Vesemir cleared his throat to indicate that his patience was wearing out while Jaskier was still staring at the shirt in his hands. Quickly he folded it again, stacked it with all of his newfound belongings and returned everything else to its former place. With Vesemir's help he closed the chest, watched him return it and then thankfully accepted the pair of fur-lined sturdy boots that appeared out of another chest. 

Thus outfitted he followed Vesemir out into the corridor again, down a staircase and found himself back in his own room. Vesemir left him with nothing but a nod, and Jaskier spent the next hour trying the various clothing items on, finding new combinations and considering his options. In the end he decided on leaving the woollen tunics for later in the year, and folded everything together with his own clothing into properly arranged stacks. The pair of light brown leather breeches fitted him surprisingly well, the cotton shirts over his own undershirts would keep his body warm and the cerulean blue tunic on top of it brought a wonderful splash of colour. The leather jacket was easily brought to shape with a belt around his waist that would be useful for a few other things besides cinching, and the boots were comfortable and warm around his feet.

There was no mirror in his room, a sad circumstance that forbade him to savour his new look, but he had never felt less in his own character. Everything fitted surprisingly well and was comfortable, but he was acutely aware of wearing things that weren't his, that had belonged to someone else. Jaskier wasn't a stranger to wearing hand-me-downs or second-hand garments, and had a very unfortunate habit of stealing the clothing of people he was close to - including Geralt, who hated nothing more than finding his few belongings missing - but these clothes seemed to come not only from a different person but from a different world altogether. Whoever had worn these had been very different from Jaskier, maybe not in terms of humanity, but in their way of living. 

It was obvious to whom these clothing items had once belonged, and why they didn't need them anymore. Everything was shaped to fit on humans, with enough room to accommodate muscles built in daily drills and training, but clearly not with a witcher's body in mind. Kaer Morhen had trained generations of boys and young men, and while some of them had surely gone through what Jaskier knew was called the trials - the gruesome process of genetic mutation he had only ever heard rumours about - and survived most of them probably hadn't. To whom had these things belonged - the dead or the still living, who had been changed irrevocably, in body as well as mind?

His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. Eskel stood in the corridor, now dressed in proper witcher-fashion in armour with his steel sword on his back, looking slightly surprised at Jaskier’s new clothes. 

"I see Vesemir made sure you won't freeze to death. A good decision."

Spinning around once so Eskel could admire him from all sides Jaskier tried to smile as winningly as possible, chasing the dark thoughts from his mind. 

"Isn't that a lovely blue?"

Something like a shadow passed over Eskel's face as Jaskier pulled the jacket open to reveal the delicate embroidery, but it was gone very quickly. 

"Indeed. Did he also give you a sword? You look almost like a witcher-in-training, a small blade would complete the look.“

Eskel sounded amused, a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice that Jaskier ignored. They would just never stop badgering him about it, would they? And what did he mean, a small blade? Grunting to his best ability Jaskier marched over to the bed, reached up to the shelves and collected the dagger he had retrieved from his boots last night. The hilt fit perfectly under the belt, secured by loops that were of the exact necessary width. 

"Better?"

Eskel grinned. 

"That's a very small blade, but if it's to your likening. I want to take you out of the walls, and there's a lot of things in the forest that would enjoy eating you. It's beyond me how Geralt can allow you to ride with him unarmed, I never would. So, for my peace of mind, keep that dagger on your belt. Is it a proper blade?"

Wordlessly Jaskier pulled it from the hilt, without hesitation handing it over to Eskel who balanced it in his hands with all the expertise of a proper connoisseur and was satisfied to find it of good quality. 

Together they left and Eskel continued the tour Vesemir had given Jaskier on the outside of the fortress. He guided them through the inner and outer courtyards, the latter stretching only to the left and right of the inner courtyard which in the middle, directly in front of the keep, was bordering on the outer defence wall that had been broken everywhere but here. Kaer Morhen was shaped like an oblong rectangle, its back to the mountains, the keep overlooking Morhen Valley. They had entered to the right side the previous night, and now Eskel guided Jaskier through this part of the courtyard and the left side.

Here the outer courtyard had two terraced levels, the upper one fitted out with an astonishing array of things and apparatuses that Jaskier had never seen before. Apparently they were used for training sessions, each constructed to train specific abilities. A set of palisades rammed into the ground could be used to work on one's balance, a construction above with wooden beams attached that could swing back and forth like a pendulum simulating an attacker. It wasn't the most delicate piece of machinery but it fascinated Jaskier, who was already looking forward to see how it would look in use. There were other things he had seen or even used before in his own childhood, but the pendulum looked downright frightening and Jaskier was once more satisfied with his own status in life as a bard and not someone who had to balance on a slippery beam while being beaten by flailing sticks. 

Pondering his lucky fate he followed Eskel to look over the low wall separating the two levels, finding the lower one considerably larger and consisting of what seemed to be mostly grass, partly used as a paddock for the horses, partly left to grow as a meadow. On the side of the lower terrace where the mountain rose stood a low shack complete with a covered enclosure where hens were picking at some grain. The view from here over the outer defencewall was spectacular, all the way into the valley and onto the Blue Mountains beyond it, their peaks already covered in snow. The wind was picking up again, and Jaskier was more than grateful for the warm clothing he was now wearing. He'd need a cloak soon, but he was confident those chests would hold one of those was well. 

Finally they rounded the keep through a small hollow tunnel on the back of it, carved into the mountain, water dripping from above. It connected the left courtyard with the right side and Eskel pointed the little cave out where a source was flowing from the mountain, providing fresh and clean water for Kaer Morhan. Quickly they had rounded the backside of the keep and arrived at the stables.

Biel was delighted to see Jaskier again, rubbing his head against his chest and snickering in greeting. Burying his hands in his warm mane Jaskier was pleased to be received with such happiness, and he repaid the warm welcome with a thorough use of the soft brush. Roach, one stable next to Biel, snorted and was obviously offended that Geralt hadn't taken the time to visit her that day. Feeling a little bit sorry Jaskier offered her one of the treats he had in Biel's saddle bag, and she took it with much less indignation than she usually did. 

Half an hour later their horses were saddled and ready to go. They lead them by the reins, only mounting after they had passed onto the outer bridge outside of the fortress. The path was broad enough for them to ride next to each other, and Jaskier enjoyed the soft rays of the autumn sun that now where falling on their face despite the cool winds.

Instead of going into the valley - the way they had come the previous evening - Eskel lead them straight ahead. They were barely around the first corner when they heard quick hooves on the path, and Lambert came into view, fully armoured with his silver blade on his back. His horse was white just as Biel was, moving steady and confidently, apparently well acquainted with the terrain. 

Slowing his horse down Lambert greeted them with a raised hand. He seemed much more relaxed than he had been the previous evening, but the look on his face turned sour once he laid eyes on Jaskier, who had already brought Biel to a standstill to let Lambert pass. 

"Are you just riding for the sake of it or are you going somewhere?"

Eskel slowed his mare when Lambert drew level with him.

"Showing our guest the area. Anything happen?"

He nodded his head in the direction of Lambert's silver blade, rising an eyebrow. But Lambert shook his head. 

"I heard a harpy cry two nights ago, was wondering if I would find it. No luck, but we got some fresh air." 

He patted his horses neck and the mare snorted, agreeing with her owner. It endeared him to Jaskier, who thought horses to be a good indicator of their owner's character. Well, maybe with the exception of Roach, who seemed to embody more extravagant characteristics than her owner ever would. 

Eskel nodded thoughtfully. 

"I heard it, too, but I think it flew towards the mountains and will be long gone. I hope it was just a rogue one, we really don't need another nest of harpies in the area."

Agreeing Lambert tilted his head and tapped his horse with his heels once. The mare immediately picked up her pace again, hooves clattering on the path towards Kaer Morhen. 

Eskel and Jaskier rode on in silence. The trail they were following was winding along the side of the mountain, looking down onto the river bed of the Gwenllech, opposite of the steep path they had taken the other day. On this side it was lovely, the outskirts of the forest covering the mountain's flanks growing close to the path. Here some broadleaves stood, their crowns coloured brightly, spots of warm colours amongst the dark green fir trees that grew higher up. The further they came from Kaer Morhen the quieter the forest became, only occasional birdsong mixing with the sound of the horses' hooves on the path. It was calm and peaceful, and Jaskier was just about to relax when a piercing scream echoed through the air, seemingly bouncing off the peaks of the mountains rising behind them. 

He watched Eskel whip around, his mare automatically stopping. For a moment horses, witcher and bard listened into the silence that fell immediately afterwards, their ears still ringing with the echo.

"What was that?"

It was stupid to ask, because Jaskier had heard a harpy’s cry before, and it wasn't exactly tied to fond memories. Eskel tilted his head, still listening, before turning to Jaskier. He remained relaxed, though, not reaching for his sword or indicating a quickening of their pace. 

"Apparently the harpy Lambert was looking for is still around. But she's nowhere near, the scream came from the mountains opposite, far away."

Jaskier nodded, gently ushering Biel to continue his dawdling pace. 

"You said you can't tolerate a nest in the area. Will you go looking for it?"

Eskel patted the neck of his mare before tapping her flanks with his heels. 

"I don't think that will be necessary anymore."

Jaskier was well-versed in reading between the lines and knew exactly what Eskel meant. He couldn't help but shudder at the implication and again minutes later, when the second scream rang out, this time even shriller than the first. Biel twisted his ears and snorted nervously, but Eskel didn't even bother to stop. 

They spent the entire afternoon exploring the area, Eskel pointing out plants and views over the valley from time to time, but otherwise keeping a companionable silence. The trees were blocking the wind and the sun was mild on their faces and backs, warming Jaskier up wonderfully, enough to withstand another night. They only turned around when dusk came, and arrived in Kaer Morhen when the last rays of sunlight were setting over the mountain. 

The stables were warm, and Biel was content after a day of exercise and fresh air, quickly forgetting about Jaskier and focusing on his hay. This time Jaskier remembered to take the small bag with his matches from the saddle, fixing it to his ever useful belt. Roach was still in the stable, and Jaskier took the time to fed her a carrot before tending to her wound, finding the jar exactly where he had left it the previous evening. Eskel took his time to brush his own mare gently, his horse thanking him with an affectionate rub of her head against his chest. 

Back in the fortress Eskel took the time to accompany Jaskier back to his room, promising to come back to pick him up for dinner. It was getting a little bit embarrassing to always need a chaperone, and Jaskier promised himself to make sure he'd at least remember a few ways around the castle as soon as possible. Taking the dagger from his belt and carefully peeling off the warm jacket he wasn't done kicking off his boots when suddenly there was a knock on the door again. 

Once again it was Eskel, still dressed and armed exactly as he had been before, but now carrying an additional, familiar looking steel sword in his hand.

"Come down to the courtyard, things might become entertaining around here."

Surprised Jaskier nodded, having not the faintest idea of what would happen, but always willing for anything that promised entertainment. Quickly he slipped the jacket back on, put on his boots and followed Eskel down. The witcher seemed in a hurry, and Jaskier had to make haste to keep up with his feather light steps. 

He marched into the inner courtyard tagging behind Eskel, finding to his surprise that Vesemir was already there, leaning against the wall next to the archway together with Lambert. Both seemed to idle around without any proper task or objective, not even talking, just waiting. Vesemir nodded at Eskel with an approving glance, while Lambert seemed to anticipate something fun to happen soon.

Jaskier wasn't even done with looking at both of them in confusion when the gate leading in from the outer courtyard was pushed open and Geralt stalked through it. That in itself didn't quite explain why the entire current population of Kaer Morhen was there anticipating his return, but well, maybe witchers were fond of welcoming committees. Though it had to be said that people deserving a proper welcoming committee usually were in slightly better shape and didn't quite look like someone for whom nobody in their right mind would have opened the gate. 

Geralt looked like something that had come in from the wild, some beast of prey returning from a hunt that had left it slightly worse for wear. He was incredibly dirty, covered in mud up to his thighs, hair wild and dishevelled, dirt, blood and what Jaskier could only assume were leaves or at least random parts of plants tangled in the strands. He had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, his arms and hands caked with dried blood so dark it looked almost black. The string that usually kept his shirt tied at the neckline was gone, used to bundle a collection of feathers up that he held in his right hand and that Jaskier could immediately pin down to be those of a harpy. 

The fact that he apparently had fought and killed the monster explained the state of his shirt, which was ripped in a few places. The worst thing, though, was that he carried an entire dead deer of sizable largeness slung over his shoulders, draped so it fit around the silver sword he had on his back, and which explained the sheer amount of blood liberally distributed all over him. He was leaning slightly forward to accommodate the weight of the animal, and while it was obvious that he barely noticed the sheer amount of dead carcass he was carrying it changed his gait, the way he was moving, more prowling than walking. It seemed that he had taken Vesemir's advice very literally, including the part where he had been instructed to hunt for dinner. But his face was relaxed, the lines around his eyes that had been visible ever since Jaskier had first seen him in the tavern finally gone. 

Glancing to the side Jaskier tried to find out if the three witchers present were as surprised as he was, but all he found was amusement, and, on Lambert's face, slight annoyance. He obviously wasn't happy to see the deer, another animal to skin and properly tend to, more work for the kitchen. There was a brawl to come, that much was for sure. 

Arriving in front of them Geralt stopped, silently and without a greeting beyond a hum. Then he offered the bundle of harpy feathers to Vesemir, who took it without a word, and untangled himself from the deer before holding it in Lambert's direction like it weighed absolutely nothing. 

"Dinner for the next days."

Lambert growled in reply, but he took the dead animal, careful not to press it against himself to avoid getting the blood and dirt all over himself. 

"Really, a doe? Are you out of your mind?"

Geralt shook his head, straightening himself now the weight of the deer was off his back. 

"Accidentally scared it. It feel into a ravine and broke its legs, nothing I could do. A quick death was more merciful and ultimately useful."

Looking at the doe Jaskier realised that indeed one of its legs was snapped in two - but so was its neck. Shuddering he turned around back to Geralt again, his mind unhelpfully reminding him that he had watched Geralt snap human necks before, and still hadn't fully recovered from the noise of a spine twisting suddenly under black gloved hands.

"Give me your sword."

Eskel, who hadn't said anything before, stepped forward. Geralt turned, slowly, looking him up and down once. Without hesitation he unbuckled the leather strap holding the sword on his back, handing it over to Eskel who immediately passed it to Vesemir. In return he offered Geralt the steel sword he had been carrying, while simultaneously pulling his own blade from where it had sat all day on his back. 

There was no explanation given, but Geralt barely had time to free his own steel blade from its sheath to parry the first blow, and the second, and as the fight erupted suddenly Jaskier quickly understood what Eskel had meant when he had coaxed him from his room with the promise of proper and maybe rather unique entertainment. If that was what they considered a fun evening in at Kaer Morhen he was in for a rather interesting winter, that much was for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And now the wolves / And now the loyality of wolves" originally goes "And now the wolf / and now the loyality of wolves", but I ditched the singular for plural for obvious reasons. The quote comes from the "Poem for joy" by June Jordan, from the collection "Directed by Desire".


	5. Inside the fabric of my feelings /

Leaning comfortably against the wall next to Vesemir and Lambert Jaskier crossed his ankles and, taking advantage of the fact that he was the only one on the sidelines not holding either a dead animal carcass or bloodied harpy feathers, crossed his arms in front of his chest watching the fight unfold. It proved to be perfect entertainment indeed, but then watching Geralt fight almost always was. It was just that usually Jaskier was too busy worrying to really enjoy the view, too hung up on the fact that dear-sweet-Melitele-they-are-trying-to-kill-Geralt-again. That concern fell flat now, as Eskel was not really trying to kill Geralt, or at least not too hard. He wasn't pulling his punches, either, and neither was Geralt, but the element of life-or-death was certainly missing, turning the fight exactly into what it was - exercise for both of them, a way to get things out of their system while revelling in their very unique skillset. 

And what a skillset it was. Jaskier had known that Geralt was an excellent fighter, probably the best he'd ever see, but he rarely had the chance to display the entirety or even larger parts of what he was actually able to do. Most of his fights Jaskier witnessed fell into two categories: either he was taking down some monster or the other, which meant the use of very specific fighting techniques suited for the specific beast, or he was being attacked by humans. The former required a silver sword, a broad knowledge about monsters and a certain amount of creativity for the plenty of times that things suddenly went to hell in a handbasket, the latter a steel blade, the ability to size up his opponent and years of fighting experience.

In both cases Jaskier had learnt that one of Geralt's main strategic ways of dealing with whoever or whatever he was fighting against consisted in keeping the fight as short as possible. He wasn't keen on long skirmishes, endless circles where two fighters mocked each other, instead preferring short bursts of movement and clean swings of the blade. It wasn't that Geralt couldn't easily handle long drawn out battles, being favoured by his manipulated biology with an endurance any human fighter could just dream of and even most monsters didn't possess. Jaskier rather suspected it had something to do with not enjoying the act of fighting, especially when a human was brandishing a weapon against him. Geralt fought for strategic reasons, because it was necessary, not because of bloodlust or arrogance. 

He wasn't a flashy fighter, either, and in witcher fashion very secretive. Everything Jaskier knew he had gathered by watching, and in all these years he had only been able to pinpoint two or three of the many things that made Geralt's fighting quite unique and incredibly lethal. A major one was technically not particularly surprising, but eight out of ten times the thing that got whoever had decided to fight with a witcher killed: Geralt was properly ambidextrous, completely capable of using both hands with equal skill and strength. He simply didn't have what human fighters proudly called their sword arm, being able to switch the blade between hands without losing speed or skill. At the same time he could fight using his forehand as well as a reverse grip with only minimal difference, and those two things combined with uncommon and quick footwork opened up a world of possibilities for the use of a blade that made it nearly impossible for a human to anticipate the next blow.

Most of his other advantages came from the way he had been shaped, his unnatural speed and uncanny ability to always know where a blade would land, his ability to trust his senses and being able to rely on them when things got heated. But even with all his mutations the core of it all were years and years of merciless drill and training. Precision and skill needed to be learnt, repeated, forced onto the body again and again, until movement became muscle memory and the body could fight while the mind analysed the opponent's next move, pick up on it before it happened, calculate everything down to the last second. Every human could be trained to fight, but the way Geralt moved made it very obvious that what he had gone through had nothing to do with the way ordinary humans were taught, had been far more ruthless, probably brutal, and ultimately efficient.

But Geralt never spoke about it. Jaskier had been badgered in taverns to divulge secrets he didn't even know and watched people offer Geralt good coin to teach them at least a few moves. But Geralt had always denied, no matter how hungry and cold both of them had been at that point, citing that bloody made-up code he always pulled out in those moments. One or two times things had escalated because of this, once on a very memorable occasion when a prince didn't accept the refusal and sent not one, but five assassins to watch Geralt and learn a thing or two. It hadn't ended well for anyone involved, and Jaskier had needed days to scratch the gory images from his mind. 

The more Jaskier was pleased to now be able to enjoy watching something humans were generally not welcome to see with the certainty that tonight he wouldn't dream of flopping guts and dripping brains. And even more, because Eskel was finally the opponent he had always wished to see Geralt fight - someone of equal strength and elegance, just as capable and ruthless.

So even though they were not fighting to kill they weren't exactly sparing each other. It was a fast fight, exploding after the first initial blows Eskel had mostly used to force Geralt to step backwards and away from their audience into the middle of the courtyard. But after a few parries Geralt was done fighting on the defensive, and from then on the fight went back and forth, Jaskier to his own surprise soon unable to tell who was still playing the part of the aggressor and who was defending himself.

It was clear from the start that Eskel had two advantages over Geralt, one being that he was wearing proper armour and could risk to move closely into the range of Geralt's blade, who himself had to make sure to keep out of reach, having actual skin in the game. It was also obvious that Eskel was bursting with energy, whereas Geralt had spent the entire day actively trying to tire himself out somewhere in the Kaedwen landscape surrounding Kaer Morhen. Combined this resulted in Eskel being able to set the pace of the fight, slowing it down or speeding it up to his likening, with Geralt following his lead with well-practised ease, both fighting against each other as well as with each other in this dance-like confrontation. They used the entire courtyard for their manoeuvres, moving rapidly between spaces, coming into view and vanishing again. 

And as entertaining as it was to watch Eskel and Geralt cross blades, the almost equally fascinating and hilarious part came from Vesemir and Lambert next to Jaskier, who both kept up a sort of running commentary, offering their opinion on what they were seeing - not to Jaskier, of course, but to each other. Vesemir, in particular, seemed to be fond of pointing out any little flaw he saw in either of their technical approach - be it a foot being where it wasn't supposed to be, Geralt slapping Eskel's blade away with an open hand in a move that had to be perfectly calculated to not be far too risky to pull off, an opportunity for a swing coming from a spin that went by without Eskel taking it, or simply a disdainful click of the tongue at a particularly outlandish move Geralt used to block Eskel's blade behind his back that Jaskier himself thought to be rather elegant and unexpected. 

Lambert preferred to critique the lack of speed in a blow, an ungraceful evasive slip to the side, anything that wasn't straight forward or to the point. His favourite thing to hate about Geralt's fighting seemed to be a move in which Geralt used his free forearm to stabilise the blade to either block a specifically hefty blow or push Eskel back unexpectedly from what had been supposed to be an easy swing, forcing him off his balance. It should have suited Lambert's taste, for it was very effective, but apparently too base. 

"Fighting like a peasant, look at that."

Shaking their heads both Vesemir and Lambert watched, and Jaskier could already see the lecture that probably awaited both Eskel and Geralt at the end of the fight. 

And then, while Lambert was still busy criticising what he saw Vesemir looked up at the slowly darkening sky and back to the courtyard where Eskel and Geralt were, for the moment, circling around each other, waiting for the next move the other would make. They were exchanging short comments, probably swapping insults fitting for the occasion, but Jaskier couldn't hear them. It was obvious that they were both taking a short break, breathing hard from the fast paced fight. 

Vesemir pushed himself off the wall. 

"Swords down!"

His voice carried easily across the courtyard, and Eskel and Geralt complied at once. Two blades dropped onto the ground, and while Geralt turned halfway to see what this was about he nearly missed Eskel throwing himself forwards. Within seconds the whole thing turned into a grappling match, blades exchanged by blows from fists and a few kicks before both went down, rolling in the dirt while trying to get the upper hand. 

Lambert groaned and rolled his eyes, but Vesemir was nodding his approval, having apparently had exactly this in mind. Jaskier couldn't help but grin broadly at the speed with which the elegant sparring had turned into a brawl any fifteen-year-old outside a tavern could have had. Pushing himself off the wall behind him to crane his neck and get a better look he realised how cold he was, fingers just about to go numb. His stomach growled silently, reminding him of the missed meals that day.

To his luck the brawl on the ground didn't last long. It barely took Geralt five minutes to get a good grip on Eskel's arm even while lying under him, drag it back in a way that threatened to break his shoulders, throwing him over. Pushing himself up he followed suit, pinning Eskel down to the ground, one knee against his chest, forearm on his throat. Eskel struggled for a few seconds, and then slammed his hand on the ground twice to indicate his surrender. Letting go immediately Geralt rolled off him, flopping onto the ground with all the grace gone for good. For a moment they just lay in the dirt of the courtyard, both on their backs, trying to catch their breath, little clouds of white forming with each rapid exhale in the cold evening air. 

Next to Jaskier Vesemir set himself into motion while Lambert picked up the dead doe he had in the interim placed on the ground, moving off towards the kitchen while complaining over the work the venison would make. It left Vesemir and Jaskier to stroll towards the exhausted fighters, who apparently had decided to simply remain where they were for the time being. 

Drawing closer Jaskier watched Eskel roll over, propping himself up on one arm and looking down at Geralt, who had already managed to control his breathing again, but remained where he was, dirty white hair spread around his head on the ground like a sad halo.

"Do you want to know a secret?"

Geralt hummed a reply, not moving. 

"You reek of harpy blood, deer shit and dried sweat, and it's the most disgusting and gross thing I've ever had on top of me."

Without opening his eyes Geralt hummed a reply. 

"Eskel?"

Eskel nodded, not bothering that Geralt couldn't see him, his eyes still being closed.

"Get off my hair."

Without warning Geralt punched Eskel in the chest, a well-aimed and fast hit that threw Eskel off balance and caused him to roll back into the dirt, laughing while gasping for air and cursing simultaneously. 

"You fucking bastard."

Propping himself up on his elbows Geralt seemed unmoved, grunting a response. He kept his eyes on Eskel's movement, apparently anticipating a punch in return. But Eskel seemed unwilling to reciprocate, at least at the moment. Instead he rolled over on his stomach, growling a little. Then he wrinkled his nose. 

"There's really a lot of blood on you. Harpy, deer, yours."

Without a warning he poked Geralt in the ribcage, looking surprised when the response was a pained hiss. Instead of asking more questions or waiting for an explanation Eskel reached over again and unceremoniously tugged Geralt's shirt up, revealing his entire left side covered in bloodied gashes, dried blood caked around wounds that were still oozing.

"Your stitches ripped."

As if he were completely unaffected by the pain Geralt looked down, unbothered by the fact that Eskel was almost undressing him, and grunted his reply.

"Hours ago. Climbing, the harpy, and you just kicked me."

Eskel let go of the shirt, and Geralt sat up slowly.

"You could have just told me you were bleeding, I'd have kicked you in the other side instead."

Not waiting for a reply Eskel started to peel himself off the floor, swiftly getting on his feet and offering his hand to Geralt. Shrugging Geralt simply looked up for a moment, and then took the offered hand. A quick pull later he was on his feet, too, and to finally end the fight properly they bumped their shoulders together before breaking apart and collecting their swords from where they had dropped them. Then they joined Jaskier and Vesemir who had stopped a few meters away, being greeting by Vesemir's disapproving glance and a growl.

"I've got two things to say to you. First - " He looked from Eskel to Geralt, frowning. "both of your swordsmanship is atrocious. Geralt, it's a blade, not a stick, stop bending your wrist like that. And you, less fighting over the guard, one day it will break. We will discuss that tomorrow, there's a lot to be desired. Second, and our guest might approve of that as well, the bathhouse is heated and ready. And Geralt, get someone to stitch that up properly. I won't do it again."

And without any further words he turned around, and marched off, seemingly annoyed with something Jaskier couldn't put his finger on. Eskel watched him leave, mindlessly tapping the flat side of his blade against his thigh. 

"I've never seen a guard break."

Geralt shrugged, starting to look around for what Jaskier assumed was the sheath of his sword. 

"But if he doesn't tell you to watch out for that and me that I'm bending my wrist is it really Vesemir?"

Eskel snorted, and replaced his blade on his back while Geralt stalked over to pick his own sheath up from the ground. A short while later he too had his sword solidly on his back again and the three of them marched off, Jaskier just following the general direction Eskel was leading them. He was solidly frozen now, and he couldn't deny that he had gleefully noted that Vesemir had spoken of a bathhouse. A bathhouse! In Kaer Morhen! It sounded too good to be true. 

Eskel led them past the stables to the cavernous tunnel leading around the back of the keep to the other side of the courtyard. There, cowered against the stone of the mountain, stood a small building Jaskier had thought to be a shed of some sorts, maybe to keep things for the chickens or supply for the horses. Apparently he had been wrong, and he could almost feel the heat when they stopped in front of the door. 

"Listen, I'll join you in a minute. Since Vesemir is gone I guess I'll have to stitch you up?"

Geralt tilted his head, looking at Jaskier, asking without even opening his mouth. Jaskier volunteered immediately.

"I can do it."

Nodding a silent thanks Geralt turned back to Eskel, who seemed to approve. 

"Good, I'm terrible at sewing." 

He turned around without further explanation and jogged over towards the entrance of the keep. Geralt moved on as well, pushing open the door behind which Jaskier anticipated rough wooden tubs and maybe, if he was lucky, a warm fire. 

Following Geralt through the door Jaskier felt the temperature increase, surprising warmth rising from the floor. The first room they entered seemed to be a small antechamber of sorts, meant to be a space to change out of one's clothing before moving onward, the floor laid with terracotta tiles, walls bare, nothing but a bench to sit on and a few rough shelves as he had seen them everywhere in Kaer Morhen to stack clothing and weapons, holding a small stack of what looked like clean towels. The actual bath seemed to be next door, and through an open archway Jaskier caught a glimpse of a large rectangle room stretching out, the walls covered in tiles with a complicated ornamental pattern that made him dizzy from staring at it for too long. It was beautifully warm inside, soft heat rising from the floor. 

Geralt closed the door behind him carefully, making sure no draught could come in and no heat escape. Without any ado he stalked over to the bench and started to take his clothing off. Jaskier followed suit, kicking off his boots and relishing in the fact that the floor was heated, his frozen feet thawing slowly. He suspected a hypocaustic heating system to be at work, something common at courts further south and completely out of place here in the mountains of Kaedwen. It took a lot of skill to build these underground heating systems, and a lot of fuel to heat them so that the air could circulate through the space left directly beneath the floor and up into the walls. In Jaskier's humble and entirely rational opinion it was one of the most wonderful ways to heat a room, creating a cocoon effect of warmth instead of the centred heat a fireplace could give, relief from the coldness outside. 

He had always known that the witchers kept a few secrets, but he hadn't expected them to be so luxurious. First the laden pantry and now a real, honest to the gods bathhouse? It was getting more and more delightful by the moment. 

"Who built this?"

Geralt had already slipped off his boots, deposited his sword on one of the shelves and was busy pulling his shirt over his head. He answered after his head appeared again, the heavy medallion falling free from the shirt and landing on his chest with a soft thud. Casting a disapproving glance at the holes his excursion had left in the almost destroyed garment he folded the remains and dropped it on the bench.

"The same people that built the entirety of Kaer Morhen. Ask Vesemir, he was there."

Quickly doing the math Jaskier could hardly believe what he had heard. Kaer Morhen was centuries old, and it seemed barely possible that Vesemir, who looked to be maybe a decade or two older than Geralt himself, could have been around. Right, so he had grey hair, but if Jaskier knew one thing it was that hair colour in witchers had nothing to do with their age. A prime example of this fact stood in front of him, although there was currently so much dirt, blood and forest debris stuck in his hair that it was barely white anymore. And he really wasn't smelling very nicely. 

"Do you think he will answer if I ask him?"

Geralt stepped out of his breeches and socks, threw them next to the shirt and shrugged. A shadow of discomfort fluttered over his face at the movement. It directed Jaskier's attention away from the specifics of the bathhouse and towards the fact that Geralt wasn't only covered in dirt but also dried blood, and that most of it seemed to be his own. 

"You really need a bath, you smell terribly. And look ghastly, let me have a look at these gashes."

Obediently turning around Geralt raised his arms away from his torso so Jaskier could examine the wounds covering his entire left side, using the movement to start picking leaves and dirt from his hair. Jaskier moved a little bit closer, wrinkling his nose to drive the point home that someone here really badly needed a bath and focused on the wounds. Whatever had gotten Geralt there had gotten him good, dragging claws - or teeth? No, it looked like claws - all the way down his side, right until where Jaskier assumed his hip bone had stopped the force of the attack. From the four deep gashes two had been stitched up, having ripped open again under pressure or impact, the thick black threads that had been used to keep them together still firmly implanted in the skin. Only the loop that had been tied into the threads on the top stood out, knotted there so they could be pulled out easily as soon as they weren't needed anymore. But that was all Jaskier could see, with the wounds caked in darkened dried blood and dirt. 

"You need to clean up first before I can do anything. And the old thread needs to be pulled."

And that would hurt. The thread was properly embedded into Geralt's flesh, the skin having closed over the suture before ripping apart anew and pulling it out would make the wound bigger. 

Geralt, seemingly unimpressed, hummed a response and apparently abandoned the idea of getting anywhere with his half-hearted attempts to clean his hair. Discarding his smallclothes and leaving them with the rest of his clothing he reached up to pick a towel from the stack on the shelf above him. Turning towards the archway leading into the actual baths he shot Jaskier a quick look over his shoulders. 

"So are you going to remain there fully dressed?"

Then he vanished around the corner, his naked feet unusually loud on the tiled floor. Hastily Jaskier followed his example, undressed quickly, taking one of the rather rough towels for himself and hurrying after him. Passing through the archway a large room opened in front of him, the heat increasing, and he stopped in surprise and not without a little sound of satisfaction. Then he quickly checked if the archway had been a portal. Was he still in Kaedwen or had he accidentally portaled, well, somewhere else? Somewhere where they had bathhouses like this and people who could built them. Because whoever had constructed this bathouse had been extraordinarily skilled, taking advantage of the rock face rising behind it, using it to their advantage by incorporating it into the architecture. 

On the long back wall to the right and left side entire pieces of wall were made up out of the raw rock, while the larger middle portion was tiled, probably to obscure pipes guiding the hot steam from the underfloor heating into the walls. The large basin was set against this tiled wall, halfway sunken into the ground, providing enough space for at least five people to comfortably drift in the warm waters. To the left and right water was running out of the wall, probably part of the spring that provided water for Kaer Morhen Eskel had mentioned earlier. On the left side a small bowl caught the water before it vanished through a drain, but on the right side stood a large brickwork basin, fitted with the same ornamental tiles as the walls, and steam was rising from it leading Jaskier to believe that it was incorporated into the heating system as well, providing hot water for the use of washing before entering the largest basin in the middle. Next to it there was space to wash, wooden buckets and bowls neatly lined up on the right side of the room for the use of dousing water over oneself, little stools to sit on comfortably while doing so, a shelf built into the wall storing various blocks of white soap and rags.

A large fireplace gave just a little bit of extra heat and proper light for the windowless room, which was aired out by little vents built high into the wall. Next to the fireplace a more delicately worked shelf was fixed to the wall, holding a variety of wooden boxes and clay pots, glass flacons and little bottles with what looked like oils and soaps. The only thing Jaskier couldn't really make sense of was a large slab of white stone placed in front of the fire place - marble, maybe? How had it gotten up here? - perfectly polished, in a comfortable height for someone standing in front of it, long enough for a tall man to stretch out on. 

The air inside was hot and humid, immediately thawing Jaskier's hand and feet, the steam rising from the larger main basin and the smaller one on the right side of the room welcoming after the cold outside. Just the image of washing himself properly and then gliding into the warm waters made him very nearly purr, if humans were prone to purring. Like this he just pressed his towel to his chest and sighed with delight. 

"And here I am thinking you witchers are these ascetic type of hardened people, not prone to idle enjoyment at all, never, and then you're hiding this? Now I finally understand why you're returning to Kaer Morhen every winter."

Geralt was looking for something on the shelf next to the fireplace and shook his head at Jaskier's enthusiasm without turning around. He would have provided an excellent view for Jaskier hadn't he wrapped his towel around his hips to get it off his hands and, well, if he had been less dirty. The combination of dirt and dried blood and Jaskier-didn't-even-want-to-know-what-that-was stood out far more clearly against his naked skin, and the frightening red and black of his injury didn't make him more endearing. 

"Heating this thing up takes a lot of fuel and work, so don't get your hopes too high for daily baths. Once a week, maybe less, depending on how harsh the winter will be. There's tubs in the keep as well, easier to heat, eating up less resources."

But right now nothing could spoil Jaskier's enjoyment. 

"Yes, yes, you are very reasonable no-nonsense people, the whole lot of you. These tiles are still gorgeous. In case you ever wanted to turn Kaer Morhen into a travel destination you could advertise spa holidays!"

Now he was actively taking the piss, but he just couldn't resist. And he got exactly the reaction he had been going for. Geralt stopped his rummaging on the shelf immediately, turning around very slowly, eyes narrowed. He didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. The obvious exasperation and hint of a threat on his face was enough to make Jaskier break into laughter and saunter over, dropping his towel onto the marble slab. 

"Right, you or any of your brothers will kill me on the spot if I ever as much as chirp a word to the outside world. In case you decide to do the deed I'd insist on you being freshly washed, though."

Jaskier's little flirting did nothing to cure Geralt of his annoyed face, but it brought the point home once more. Abandoning whatever he had planned to do he shrugged once, and walked past Jaskier towards the larger basin on the other side of the room, loosening the towel from around his hip to deposit it on the edge of the large basin.

"Let me inform you that my nose is still functioning, lest you think I lost my senses somewhere. I was looking for the thread you'll need for the stitches, but I suppose I can do that later."

Nodding Jaskier turned towards the shelf himself. 

"You'll need to clean the wounds first anyway. I'll look through the things, see what I will need."

He had a very clear idea of what equipment he liked to use, having acquired a lot more knowledge on minor surgeries like this in the past years than he ever thought he'd need. It helped that he usually spent his winters at Oxenfurt, where knowledge was easy to pick up and hone. It also helped that he knew a few medical students who had been willing to teach him a thing or two about properly working needle and thread, provided him with lectures, books and a laboratory where he had spent one particularly memorable winter sewing anything together that didn't run away - mostly because it was already dead, of course. 

Now he looked through what was on offer for his current project, finding the shelf well stocked with various types of thread and needles, a few sets of potions neatly stacked in boxes and labelled, fresh bandages, gauze and cloths to clean and wrap wounds. Behind him he heard the telltale sounds of a bucket being picked up, water splashing into it. Throwing a glance over his shoulder he watched Geralt straightening with the full bucket, having taken water from the basin in the wall. Without any visible effort he hoisted the bucket into the air and simply dipped the entire content over his head, the water streaming down his back, taking the first dirt and blood away, pooling at his feet before flowing into the cleverly placed drain. The floor had to be slightly tilted towards the wall, something Jaskier hadn't realised until now but made sense. Whoever had constructed this bathhouse had been experienced and thought of everything. 

Turning back to the shelf he picked a few things and placed them on the marble slab. It was only then that he realised the purpose of it and why it was placed here, close to the fire and shelves, where the warmth of the flames and their light gave optimal working conditions to patch someone up. Witchers got injured a lot, and the floor of the bathouse could easily be cleaned of blood and gore. 

Geralt had already dipped the second bucket of water over his head and progressed to take a third one, which he set on the floor before picking one of the stools, rag and soap and settling down for a proper scrubbing. With a small bowl he doused his hair a few more times to soak it first before washing the dirt out later and proceeded to rub soap all over his torso. The smell of pine tree and sea salt hit Jaskier with a little delay, the soap obviously scented generously and rather nicely. Sorting through what he knew about perfume production on the continent he placed the soap for having come from the coastal areas, somewhere where it was warmer, the wind softer than it was in Kaedwen. For a moment his mind wandered to warm summer evenings spent under those trees, a breeze from the sea bringing in the scent of waves and joy, the lightness of a hot day in his bones. Blinking against the memories he needed a moment to clear his head. Whoever had brought this soap all the way to these mountains apparently had similar longings, and Jaskier felt an immediate and intense bond with them. 

A soft, almost muted hiss brought him fully back to reality, and Jaskier realised that Geralt had arrived at the wounds on his torso, cleaning the edges with a fresh cloth and water, which was obviously a rather painful task. Pouring water over himself he twisted his shoulders to be able to see properly what he was doing, the water running towards the drain dark with blood. He gave the wounds one or two more swipes with the rag, this time remaining stoically silent, the only indication of his discomfort in the lines around his eyes and the deepening frown on his forehead.

Pouring a final bowl of warm water over the gashes he seemed satisfied with the state of cleanliness he had achieved. Placing the bowl aside he twisted his torso once more, left arm raised so he could see better, reaching over with his right hand. He brushed his fingers over the largest gash, right where the thick black thread had grown into his skin, up to the top of the old surture. For a second he stopped there, fingers moving over the top of the thread. Jaskier didn't realise that he had been feeling for the loop tied into the thread before he watched Geralt exhale to contract his ribcage and, in one smooth and deliberately slow motion, pull it from his flesh. Immediately blood welled up, running down his hip and leg, dripping onto the floor. With the thread out of his flesh he inhaled and cursed under his breath while leaning over, reaching out to take another bowl and drop the thread into it. It had to hurt like hellfire, but he gave no indication of actually feeling the acute pain Jaskier knew had to be there. 

Apparently Jaskier's horror at the almost self-mutilation he had just witnessed was very clearly written over his features, managing to stop Geralt for a second from examining the blood still running down his side. 

"What?"

Gesturing wildly Jaskier made haste to move over, his naked feet loud on the tiles. 

"Gods above, what are you doing? Put something on that wound, you're already losing a lot of blood!"

He threw his hands up, feeling the difference between his own shock and Geralt's unfazed composure almost physically. He earned only a raised eyebrow in return. 

"It needs to be done, I don't see the problem."

Stopping close to him Jaskier stood, hands on his hips, realising there was nothing he could do without a bandage or cloth.

"Wait, I'll get a clean cloth."

Turning around he marched back to the shelf, picked up fresh gauze and turned around just in time to watch Geralt repeat the process a second time with the shorter thread, this time hissing through gritted teeth when he was done and placing the thread in the bowl next to the first one. Now he was bleeding profusely, but instead of moving to press something - anything! - against the gashes to stop the bleeding he only reached for the bowl with clean water he had set by his side and poured it over the open wounds, this time flinching at the impact of water on broken flesh. 

Feeling a little bit queasy Jaskier marched back, clean gauze at the ready. 

"You brute, how can you do this just like this, are you insane? Here, hold this to the wounds. No more water on them! At least you're clean now." 

Realising he was babbling Jaskier pressed the gauze into Geralt's unwilling hands and was relieved to find him at least following the order to hold it against his wounds. 

"I'll need my hands to wash my hair."

Jaskier growled, watching the gauze soak up the blood and turn dark red at an alarming speed. 

"Don't even think of dropping that gauze. I'll quickly wash your hair and then I'll patch you up." 

Without waiting for permission he picked up the bucket, filled it anew at the basin on the wall - the water was beautifully warm, neither too hot nor too cold - and carried it the few steps over to where Geralt was watching him with a mixture of confusion and amusement, but not protesting at all. Dipping the bowl into the clean water Jaskier stood behind him, gently placing a hand on his head to encourage him to tip it back slightly, feeling the sudden twist of pleasure at the skin contact in his stomach. By now he knew that the slight buzz came from the magic Geralt emanated, and that it wasn't voluntary but rather a contact spell neither Jaskier nor Geralt himself could do anything about. It was a strange feature of witcher' physiology that had kept Jaskier wondering for a while. Why had it been built into Geralt's genetic makeup to reward any skin contact like this? To award people who looked past the whole exterior, to sooth any fear his appearance might evoke, make intimacy easier? If that had been the point it had backfired spectacularly, made him avoid any contact, the whole reason for the eternal black gloves he kept wearing and his constant evasion of any accidental touch. 

It had taken Jaskier years to worm his way around these defences, being himself a hopelessly tactile person with a constant need for physical contact of whatever degree. Intimacy had arisen out of need, first. They had been - and often still were - too broke to afford two beds and two tubs, too hungry to not share the bread, often too hurt not to accept a helping hand. After years and years of travelling together, sleeping curled up next or even around each other, wiping the blood away and tending to injuries there was barely any shadow of Geralt's usual discomfort around humans left when faced with Jaskier and his ever gentle hands.

So it was without any comment or complaint that Geralt tilted his head back, and Jaskier poured the water over his hair, using his hands to brush through it to loosen any larger clumps of dirt and blood, feeling the water burn on the grazes on his own hands. Doing what he had done so many times before he continued the process, pouring water a few times before picking the soap up from where Geralt had set it down. Rubbing it between his fingers first he massaged the foam into Geralt's scalp and hair, again using the bowl to pour water and then repeating the process until the hair between his hands was silver white again, smooth and heavy with water. Gently twisting it to squeeze the water out Jaskier heard the door open and looked up. But nobody entered, the steps stopping in the antechamber. There was rustling sound of someone undressing, clothing being folded, boots kicked off. 

"Eskel."

Geralt hadn't even opened his eyes, feeling Jaskier stopping and listening. 

"So do you recognise everyone in this fortress by their steps or their scent?

It was supposed to be a joke, but Geralt shrugged.

"Both, usually."

Jaskier was tempted to ask for more details, but at that exact moment Eskel appeared in the doorframe, naked with the exception of the wolf head medallion and the small towel he had wrapped around his hips. He was obviously amused at the sight in front of him.

"I see I'm right on time, one minute later and you would've braided each other's hair."

Geralt snorted in reply while Jaskier dropped his hair and stepped back, feeling a blush on his cheeks that made no sense at all. Lucky for him Geralt used the moment to stand up, taking the blood-soaked gauze from his side and examining the gashes. Eskel, apparently curious, wandered over to partake in the examination so that Jaskier suddenly had a very clear view on a lot of naked flesh right in front of him. 

It proved that Eskel was built very much like Geralt, strong shoulders over slim hips, long sinewy legs, his body consisting of nothing but solid strong muscles, skin criss-crossed by scars. It was a different arrangement of scars than the one Jaskier knew from Geralt's body, lines carved and slashed in new directions, claw marks and teeth indentations in different places. Most notably Eskel had what was a veritable spiderweb of thick scars running over his left thigh, prominent and ugly, stitched together poorly and apparently without any attention to detail. But the most interesting ones, besides those on his face, were three round scars with little lines leading outwards on his right shoulder, looking like bursting stars, a collection of supernovas slashed into his skin. 

"Your skin is black around the edges, looks like poison."

Geralt, still twisting his torso to look at the now clean gashes, shrugged again. 

"I wondered about that, too. Jaskier, you'll need to cut that out."

But Jaskier wasn't listening, eyes fixed on the starburst scars on Eskel's shoulders, unable to tear his gaze away even as Geralt moved past him to go over to the fireplace, picking up his towel on the way and drying himself off. The stare didn't go unnoticed, but Eskel didn't seem to mind. He easily concluded what Jaskier was staring at and turned to present the other side of his right shoulder where three identical scars were visible. Entrance and exitwounds, Jaskier realised. 

"Crossbow bolts, Bard. Took a while to get those out."

Fascinated Jaskier started at them, completely unaware of his total lack of decorum or manners. The bolts must have come from the front, fired from close range in a straight line, and it was beyond him how Eskel had not managed to avoid them. Apparently the question was written on his face, but Eskel motioned towards the fireplace. 

"Ask later."

Suddenly aware of the intrusiveness of his behaviour Jaskier nodded, finally blushed with actual reason behind it and walked to join Geralt. Behind him he heard Eskel pick up the bucket and start the ritual of dousing and scrubbing. 

At the slab Geralt had looked through the things Jaskier had placed out to use, swapped the thread for a different one and taken a small leather roll from the shelves. He just unrolled it when Jaskier came close, displaying a variety of sharp scalpels, each kept in its place by a little leather loop. 

"Any preferences?"

Shuddering Jaskier looked at the sharp blades, and deciding on one pulled it out. Geralt replaced the leather roll on the shelf, opened one of the boxes and picked two potions bottles out of it. Returning to the slab he placed both of them down. 

"Cut out whatever blackened skin you find, it shouldn't bleed too much. Then use the dark blue potion. It will take away any lingering poison, but make sure not to get any of it on your skin, it would be toxic for you. Silver thread for the stitches, and in the end the yellow potion, liberally. This time pour some over your hands, it will heal the grazes. Do you need anything else?"

Jaskier looked over the assortment, and noticed something vital was missing. 

"Something for your pain?"

But Geralt only shrugged, wrapping the towel around his hips and sitting down on the slab, turned so Jaskier could see the gashes properly. But Jaskier wasn't having it. 

"No, we're not doing this without. I won't stick a scalpel into you just like this, are you out of your mind?"

But Geralt looked unmoved by the prospect of being cut into while being fully present and there for the experience.

"It won't be that bad, my pain threshold is very different from yours."

It wasn't that Jaskier didn't know that. But he also knew that no matter how often Geralt denied feeling pain it was mostly nothing but a ruse. Of course some of it was founded in reality - witchers did have the ability to step back from pain, to block it for a while - but Jaskier had also seen him black out from blood loss or injuries, and knew that this, like everything, had its limitations. 

"Don't care. You take something for the pain, or I won't put any sharp things into your body. Imagine you flinched and I stabbed your liver or something!"

Rolling his eyes Geralt shook his head. 

"My liver is nowhere near where you'll put the scalpel. Unless you plan to disembowel me, in which case I'd recommend a bigger blade."

From behind him Jaskier heard water splash and Eskel snort. 

"Let me remind you that you can disembowel someone with a kitchen spoon."

The bucket was put down and the smell of the soap became prominent again. Geralt, looking over Jaskier's shoulders, groaned. 

"That was a one-time-occurrence."

Eskel laughed, and Jaskier placed his hands on his hips. He didn't want to know how the kitchen spoon scenario had come to be. Or maybe he did? Pushing the thought away he focused on the task at hand. Priorities, he needed priorities. 

"Listen, I won't disembowel you. But I also don't want to cause you unnecessary pain."

Bloody hell, how could it be that difficult to explain that poking scalpels into a breathing and very awake person wasn't quite what Jaskier considered fun times? There were remedies for that! Had witchers never heard of anaesthetics? Were they all insane here?

"There is nothing around that could work."

Shrugging Jaskier considered his options, which, to his unpleasant realisation, weren't many any more. If there was nothing Geralt could do about it then there was nothing to be done, and that was it. He'd just have to go through with it, grit his teeth and get it over with. 

"Just for the record - it was your idea, so if you'll be crying in a moment I won't hear any of it. Need a stick between your teeth?"

Geralt seemed strangely relieved at that statement, more than he should have been, but waved away the offering of something to bite on. Picking up the two potion bottles, thread and needle Jaskier made space on the slab and motioned for him to stretch out on it. 

"Lie down, I can't work on you if you're sitting like this."

Following the order Geralt made good use of the space on the slab, stretching out on his right side, back to the fire, lower leg stretched out and the upper one pulled up slightly to stabilise his body, arms bent so that his head could rest on them. It gave Jaskier the ideal view on the gashes, and the only adjustment needed was that the towel obscured the lowest part of the injury. That was rightened quickly, just a little push moving the fabric down far enough that Jaskier could see where the gash ended almost on top of Geralt's hip bone. Like this it was obvious what Eskel had meant when he had pointed out the areas around the wound that had blackened and needed to be cut out. But they were larger than anticipated, and the stitches that would close the wounds would need to be more complicated and stronger. And, fuck, did he see Geralt's lowest rip shimmer white through the torn flesh right there?

Looking down Jaskier couldn't help but feel more than just a little uncomfortable at the thought of the minor surgery he was about to perform.

Then he heard Eskel growl somewhere behind him. 

"For fuck's sake, Geralt, stop torturing him and just ask me already."

Lifting his head slightly Geralt managed to look absolutely blasé about the whole thing while being in no situation whatsoever to be even halfway this detached, considering he was almost naked, injured and spread out on a slab of stone to be dissected while being fully aware of it. A small voice in Jaskier's mind told him that if he had still needed any proof of how much exactly Geralt trusted him he needn't look any further than this. The realisation made his heart miss a beat or two, but he pushed the feeling away, having more important things to focus on right now. 

"I'm not sure what I prefer here."

Eskel appeared next to Jaskier, dripping wet but scrubbed perfectly clean, towel again wrapped around his hips. 

"Where's your famous altruism? Let me talk to someone less moronic. Bard, do you wish me to do something so you don't have to perform a vivisection on the White Wolf?"

Nodding Jaskier weighed the scalpel in his hand. 

"That would be appreciated."

Turning back Eskel smiled dangerously down at Geralt, the scar on his face twisting slightly. 

"You've been outvoted."

Then he focused and with his left hand performed a complicated motion in the air. Jaskier could almost feel the pull of magic gathering around the symbol following Eskel's beckoning of it, and how easily he commanded it to his will. For a moment the magic quivered there, and then followed Eskel's hand as he reached down to sweep a thumb along Geralt's forehead without bothering to ask for permission. Under the touch Geralt's eyes fell close, his body losing all tension, head falling down on his arms where he had rested it just moments ago. 

"There you go, he won't feel a thing. You're welcome."

Surprised Jaskier looked down at Geralt's limp body and up again at Eskel, and couldn't decide how exactly he was feeling about this thing. To prevent himself from going into further rumination about the nature of magic and consent and such things he decided to focus on the task at hand and put the scalpel to use. Out of nowhere the bowl Geralt had already deposited the two threads he had pulled from his skin appeared, and while thanking Eskel Jaskier started his minor surgery, carefully cutting the poisoned flesh from the wounds, depositing the cut-offs in the bowl. It was bloody work, and he was probably too careful about it, working very slowly. But he was glad to be able to take his time without worrying, as what Eskel had said proved true: Geralt was properly knocked out, obviously not feeling a thing of what Jaskier was doing to his skin and flesh, breathing regularly but not moving at all. 

The cutting, cleaning and sewing took forever. Following all steps Geralt had requested Jaskier took out the blackened flesh, carefully dripped the dark blue potion onto the wounds, watching in horror as smoke rose from it, stinking faintly of burnt flesh. Waiting a moment he then progressed to the stitching process, pulling the silver thread through skin again and again, slowly, meticulously mending. He was keen on producing a proper suture, something that could heal over nicely, leaving clean lines instead of some of the crooked looking scars Geralt had strewn all over his body. Jaskier already knew he had a good eye for such things and patience, seeing the proof of his skill again in front of him while working now - a small scar on Geralt's biceps, a larger one on his back between his shoulders blades, faint lines on his neck that were usually hidden under his hair and only now visible because of the way he was draped on the table, all those wounds Jaskier had stitched up and that had healed cleanly and quickly. 

In an absurd way he felt a little bit proud of his craftsmanship, honoured that Geralt allowed him this close. But there was also the responsibility of the whole thing, the fact that if Jaskier fucked up Geralt would carry the proof of it around with him until his dying day. There was something strange of leaving permanent marks in this way, engraving that fact of one's own presence into someone else's body irrevocably. 

And then he was done, putting needle and thread aside, his hands bloodied up to the elbow. Carefully he picked up the final bottle with the yellow potion, carefully making sure the slippery glass wouldn't just glide from his wet hands. Peeling the cork off the bottle he smelled the waft of a thick, soft flowery scent coming from the bottle and tipped its contents slowly over the wounds. When almost everything was gone he remembered what Geralt had told him, but decided to forgo the option to keep a bit of it behind for his own hands. It seemed ridiculous to moan over some grazed skin when half of Geralt's body looked like this, when his blood was all over the floor and up Jaskier's arms. 

Setting the bottle down Jaskier exhaled purposefully and felt the relief of having done what to him looked like a good job. Geralt looked completely unmoved in whatever coma Eskel's sign had knocked him into, but at least he was still breathing steadily and hadn't bled to death. He put the empty potion bottle down, and looking up realised that Eskel had watched him from where he was comfortably lounging in the large basin. 

"Looks good to me. We'll let Geralt stay there for a while longer, but you should clean yourself and relax a bit."

He didn't have to tell Jaskier twice. Still feeling a little bit dizzy from the intense concentration he crossed the room, took the bucket and finally doused himself in the wonderfully warm water. It was surprisingly soft, probably carrying plenty of minerals from its journey through the stones of the mountains rising behind Kaer Morhen. The scent of the soap cleared Jaskier's mind, and minutes later he climbed into the large basin being scrubbed squeaky clean, his hair dripping, smelling of pine tree and the sea. 

It was truly a blessing to simply float in the water, the heat quickly making him sleepy and comfortable. Eskel seemed to feel more or less the same, his head leaning against the edge of the basin, amber eyes half closed in relaxation. It was surprising how easily he took to Jaskier's presence, even if one counted the fact that Eskel could kill him with a twist of his hands. But so could Geralt, and he had been almost skittish in their first month together whenever he had been unarmed around Jaskier, as if he weren't enough of a weapon himself and Jaskier nothing but a twig he could easily snap. 

"You're really strange for a witcher."

Leaning his own head back against the basin's edge Jaskier observed Eskel's reaction without any fear, confident he was absolutely safe in his presence. All he received was a stifled yawn. Eskel stretched languidly, arms above his head, before dropping his hands back onto the surface of the water, skimming his palms over it. 

"No, your perspective is just distorted."

Jaskier had considered this, too. 

"But is it? I have had very little possibilities for comparisons until now. There's not really many of your kind left."

Eskel nodded, his hands sinking underwater. 

"Less and less these days. So is it curiosity that brought you here?"

Shrugging Jaskier nodded. Of course curiosity had brought him here, amongst the fact that he would've frozen to death in bloody Kaedwen otherwise. He also wasn't going to deny that spending time with Geralt had been a major draw, especially after they hadn't seen each other all summer long. He didn't want to think of what else might have been there, lurking beneath the surface of his other motivations. Jaskier knew himself to be a deep well of terrible idiocy and capability for stupid decisions, and he wasn't going to dive into that particular issue right now. 

"Speaking of which, you said I could ask you about your shoulder."

Snorting Eskel sat up a bit taller, his shoulders now above the waterline. 

"Don't write me a song about them, I know you're prone to do that. Crossbow bolts, I told you."

Craning his neck a bit to look at Eskel's shoulder critically Jaskier pursed his lips. 

"But from that close? How did you not dodge?"

For a moment Eskel looked as if he was wondering whether Jaskier had to know the truth, but then decided he was already in too deep to pull back now. 

"I was tied to a stake. They weren't keen on witchers in that particular village."

And it was the right shoulder, where most human fighters would have their swordarm. It was the cruellest thing Jaskier could imagine, an injury designed not to kill, just to incapacitate permanently. He felt the surge of shame for his entire race well up, unable to say anything. Eskel tilted his head, now observing Jaskier carefully, amber eyes without any hint of accusation. 

"There's no reason for you to look ashamed. You don't inherit the sins of your entire race automatically, and if you weren't different you wouldn't be here. We heard your songs, and at least I understand why you sing them and appreciate it."

Looking down at the water Jaskier nodded, but still couldn't help but feel the anger. What were songs against crossbow bolts and swords, against torches lit with the intention to burn someone alive? He had been there to witness what reactions Geralt's appearance in a village could provoke, he had ran from stones and worse together with him. 

"Least I can do."

Feeling his voice crack with emotion Jaskier needed to clear his throat, feeling slightly silly for being overwhelmed now. 

"Sure. Hope you are aware you'll have to sing for your keep here soon."

The light-hearted comment was intended to calm Jaskier, and it did exactly that. Against his will he had to smile, meeting Eskel's gentle gaze, brushing the frustration and sadness down. 

"Good. Shall we wake Geralt to tell him the good news? But beware, he'll throw a fit."

Well, that sounded realistic. Nodding Jaskier watched Eskel straighten up a bit more, focus his gaze on the other side of the room where Geralt still lay and raised his left hand out of the water. Performing a complicated motion, his fingers still dripping Jaskier felt the little shift in the air and the sign dissolved. 

Behind him Geralt immediately moved, groaning hoarsely. Jaskier paddled around in the basin to get a better view, and watched Geralt moving stiffly. He turned onto his stomach, pushing himself up with his forearms, head hanging down. The heat from the fire had dried his hair completely, and it fell in gentle waves over his shoulders, concealing his face. 

"So how are we feeling?"

Eskel's voice was somewhere between obnoxious and sugary sweet, annoying even to Jaskier. Geralt kept his head low, apparently leaning his forehead against the cold marble, growling. 

"Fuck you, Eskel."

Clicking his tongue in mock disbelief Eskel continued to egg him on. 

"And that's the thanks I get for saving you from terrible pain. Our guest did an excellent job, have a look yourself. You're good as new."

With effort Geralt pushed himself up again, rolling to his side and examining the gashes. To Jaskier's surprise the yellow potion must have done wonders, and they looked far less horrible than they had approximately fifteen minutes ago. Witcher healing speeds aided by their various concoctions would never cease to amaze him, that much was for sure. 

"All you did was give me a splitting headache, so thank you for that. Keep your bloody signs off me next time."

Tilting his head Eskel went through the movements of being deadly offended and seriously hurt. 

"Oh no, he's insulting my magic. Bard, what do we say to that?"

Jaskier, knowing fully well when to keep out of sight to avoid friendly fire, kept his mouth shut. 

"It's still a sign, and that's the end of it. A year in Ban Ard doesn't make you a mage."

Rubbing his forehead Geralt sat up fully, swinging his legs over, still moving cautiously. He apparently really did have a proper headache, judging from the way he was blinking even in the low light of the bathouse, his pupils constricting into thin slits against the flickering from the fireplace, head leaning forward and tilted at an odd angle. For a moment he was completely still, looking less human than normally in this state of near nakedness, white hair falling loosely over his shoulders, the injuries less prominent than they had been before. Then he pulled himself upright until he was standing again and started to clean up the space around the slab. 

Eskel snorted, splashing water in Geralt's direction. 

"I'd say you're just jealous, aren't you? My poor heart, I won't survive."

Theatrically he placed a hand on his chest, eyes widened to portray all the anguish of a broken heart. Jaskier wasn't sure where to look, suddenly convinced he had ended up in a really strange nightmare. Or, wait, was there White Gull in the bathwater?

Geralt's dry voice pulled him from his thoughts. 

"Spare me your antics, Eskel."

Dropping the act Eskel only shrugged and smiled at Jaskier. 

"Did you really spent a year at Ban Ard?"

Examining his fingers to see if he shouldn't maybe get out of the water soon lest he turn into a dried prune Jaskier looked away for a moment. Behind him he could hear Geralt slowly tidying, getting water from where it flowed out of the wall close to the fireplace, splashing it on the ground to wash the blood away.

"Before I became a witcher. They came to Kaer Morhen and offered me to join them, so I went. Got homesick soon and returned."

Looking up at Eskel Jaskier couldn't help but wonder. 

"So you have enough magic to be a mage?"

Eskel nodded. 

"All witchers have some sort of magic. I just happen to have a little bit more."

Filing that information away for further use at a later time Jaskier wanted to continue asking, but Geralt interrupted them. 

"You can continue your wonderful session of getting to know each other, but I'll head over to the keep now. Jaskier, thank you."

Turning to face him Jaskier nodded, but Geralt wasn't really waiting for a response. Without further ado he stalked through the room, vanishing through the archway into the antechamber. Eskel rolled his eyes. 

"He'll be delighted to find that I brought him fresh clothes, but I have a feeling he won't thank me for it."

Jaskier wanted to say something, but his stomach took the chance to growl loudly just then, finally demanding the food it had been deprived off almost all day. Eskel grinned, and nodded, already moving to climb out of the basin. 

"Yes, I think we should join him. Let's set everything to order here and go up. I'm afraid the venison will take a few more days to cure, but maybe Lambert made one of his stews tonight. They are good with fresh bread, you'll like them. I heard you won't partake in the White Gull anymore, but maybe I can interest you in a special casket of aged Skellige rum I brought back together with the soaps?"

Jaskier nodded enthusiastically, taking note of the fact that apparently Eskel had a likening for the coast he'd like to discuss further, later, with a good glass of rum after a hearty meal he felt he absolutely deserved after a day of riding around, watching other people fight and performing the first minor surgery of his entire life. 

There was just one last question he needed to ask quickly before the opportunity would be gone. 

"Eskel, you surely know a lot about monsters. I've never heard of wargs having poisoned claws before, is that a subspecies native to this area?"

Already standing next to basin and watching Jaskier climb out of the water Eskel's face was a mixture of appreciation at Jaskier's ability to make connections and annoyance at the fact that he had indeed made them. Then he shook his head. 

"There aren't any known warg species with poisoned claws, Bard. Not in this area nor anywhere else."

Obviously wanting to drop the topic he turned around briskly, and set about getting the room in order. Jaskier, having already guessed the answer, could only nod and follow him.


	6. Inside the fabric of my feelings / I am reeling. Disarranged

When they were leaving the banquet hall after dinner it was again Eskel who motioned for Jaskier to wait a moment. The stew had been just as wonderful as he had promised, although the freshly baked bread he had talked about hadn't quite materialised. Apparently Lambert had preferred to spent his afternoon chasing harpies and watching the fight instead of making sure the oven was hot, and Jaskier understood perfectly well why. It was also Lambert's last night on kitchen duty, and he had gleefully told Eskel to get into gear and do something with all that dead deer they had sitting in their coolest cellar, ready to be used up in whatever way he could think of. 

But it had generally been a peaceful dinner, everybody present hungry and focused on their food. Vesemir and Eskel had discussed ways to use up the venison, but also debated issues with general storage and food rationing over the upcoming winter. It quickly turned out that while Vesemir was clearly in charge in Kaer Morhen it was Eskel who kept the books in proper shape and the pantry organised. 

Listening closely Jaskier learnt a few things about how Kaer Morhen was kept up and running, especially when their talk drifted into areas of general upkeep of the fortress. Lambert joined in then, and the three of them discussed in great detail how they would manage to guarantee the structural integrity of the keep, where a wall was falling down and needed to be set up again, if the roof would withstand the winter storms, and who exactly would need to climb up to fix that one hole in the highest point of the main tower.

Jaskier kept silent, and so did Geralt. He seemed half-asleep during most of the evening, eating and listening but otherwise only humming his agreement when things were decided, sometimes nodding when Vesemir allotted him work. He didn't complain, not even when Lambert smirked and suggested that Geralt should be the one to climb into the roof to fix the aforementioned hole, and do it soon, as it would be inaccessible when the snow came.

Finally they were done with their dinner, Lambert busied himself with the dishes and everybody rose. It was then Eskel caught Jaskier by the sleeve, stopping him from following Vesemir in the direction of the library. 

"You remember what I said in the bathhouse? Get your lute, Bard, and earn your keep."

He didn't have to tell Jaskier twice. He had been itching to sing since he had arrived in the fortress, not having had any spare time in the past days to indulge in his music, to even think about it. He had felt the need for it like a physical yearning ever since they had come back in from the bathhouse, and would have excused himself for the evening to sing in his room just for himself if Eskel hadn't asked him to do it for all of them. 

Taking his time to pick up his lute he couldn't deny that he was a little bit proud to have found his room on his own. He felt slightly stupid, but considering his recent record for getting lost at Kaer Morhen he was quite happy with his newfound ability to locate his own bed. Finding the library turned out to be a bit more complicated, and he opened two doors to completely dark and cold empty rooms before finally finding the right one and walking into the warm and comfortable space. 

He was late, of course, the others already having settled in. Lambert was still cleaning up the kitchen, but Vesemir had taken the armchair close to the fire again. To Jaskier's surprise he seemed asleep, eyes closed and arms folded over his stomach, head tipped to the side. Eskel sat opposite of him in the chair Jaskier had occupied the previous evening, with a small table pulled up to serve as a makeshift footstool, reading a large tome with a deep brown leather binding. He kept the book tilted towards the fire, notwithstanding the fact that his pupils where blown wide, proving that he could easily read in the dark. Geralt was nowhere to be seen. 

Settling down in the free chair next to Eskel it took Jaskier a moment to sort himself out. He placed the lute in his lap, found a comfortable position and hesitated for a moment. He didn't want to wake Vesemir up, still being unsure if his singing would actually be welcome. Eskel, who had looked up from his book in anticipation, noticed. 

"Don't worry, they are both fast asleep."

Jaskier nodded and then realised that Eskel had to see something he didn't. Looking around the room Jaskier craned his neck, trying to appear a bit less nosey than he actually was. But of course Eskel knew what Jaskier was looking for, shaking his head before gesturing towards the fireplace. 

The camp bed Jaskier had noticed last night had been moved, pushed between Eskel's chair and the fireplace so it was closer to the warmth of the flames. It was hidden from Jaskier's point of view by the chair and Eskel himself, so it had escaped his notice. Lifting himself from his chair and straining his neck Jaskier caught a glimpse of Geralt, curled up on the furs draped over the bed, eyes closed and apparently peacefully asleep.

From all the things he had seen Geralt do in the last few days this was probably the one he hadn't ever thought possible. Not when he knew Geralt's insomnia so well, how difficult it was for him to sleep in the company of others, how easily he could be roused by anything and everything.

Whenever they were camping under the stars on their travels it seemed the slightest chirp in the forest could wake him up. A broken twig, a fir cone falling, something moving in the undergrowth, everything could pull Geralt from sleep within seconds. Usually he could settle down quickly again, being able to distinguish between danger and random noises, but it didn't change the fact that he barely slept entire nights through. The same could be said for their nights in inns, at least for those Jaskier was privy to. So to see him like this, comfortably curled up not only in the company of others but so close to Eskel's chair who, if he had wanted, could have just dangled his hand over the armrest and touched Geralt's hair that was spread around his head, half of it hanging down the side of the rather narrow camp bed? That was absolutely unprecedented, and Jaskier couldn't help but voice his surprise. 

"Never thought I'd see the day."

Eskel snorted, closing his book without bothering to mark the page he had been reading. 

"Welcome to Kaer Morhen. Witchers in hibernation, all we do is sleep, drink and eat. I hope you hadn't expected anything spectacular to happen, because this is as good as it gets."

Throwing another glance at Geralt's peaceful face Jaskier was pretty sure he'd do very well if things continued this way, but he didn't say anything. Instead he simply settled down again, cradling the lute, strumming a few strings to see if it needed tuning. Of course it did, as string instruments were wont to, and while he plucked strings and listened for the right pitch he picked up the conversation with Eskel again. 

"I'm surprised you're not asleep as well."

Grinning Eskel leant over the side of his armchair away from the fire and picked up the goblet he had kept on the ground. 

"It was a good year for me, more rest than usually. Spent most of summer at the coast with a steady contract, got some sun. I am not complaining."

He sipped whatever liquid was in the goblet and placed it down again. Jaskier listening to the sound of the string vibrating and turned the tuning peg carefully.

"If I remember correctly I promised you a taste of my good rum. Now or later?"

That was an offer Jaskier wasn't going to turn down, and minutes later he had a goblet full standing on the floor next to his chair - Eskel still used the little table for his feet - and his lute was tuned. 

"Any requests?"

Eskel tilted his head, thinking for a moment. He was watching Jaskier with curiosity, apparently actually interested in what was going to happen, and his attention was ointment on Jaskier's ego. 

"No talk about work tonight, so nothing about monsters and witchers." For a moment he looked down to the other side of his chair towards the fireplace where Geralt was sleeping, and on his face was the same expression a man would have while deciding whether or not to pet a particularly fluffy but very dangerous dog. Apparently he decided against taking any risks tonight, and continued.

"I feel old when I'm here, bard, and tonight my mood has mellowed. So sing me something that goes with the fire, with the wind outside, something old. Preferably something older than I am. We will do the raucous and lewd songs some other time."

Thinking about this request for a moment Jaskier carded through his internal collection of music. He understood exactly what Eskel meant and wanted, finding it fitting to the atmosphere as well. He'd sing his own famous songs some other time, but not tonight. Digging through his mind he remembered the songs he had grown up on, the old ones, those they had taught him first, that had been written for winter nights at a fireplace and not for taverns, not for banquet halls and court celebrations, not to make money, but to simply tell a story. 

So he sang. 

The library had reasonable acoustics, and the fire created a wonderful feeling of intimacy, a space within the space, light separated from dark. It was this bubble of light Jaskier filled with his voice, the lute softly carrying the tune, everything a little bit muted, a little bit toned down. The songs he picked were sad, because those old songs always were. They spoke of love and death, of loss and the realisation that this is what life was. Love meant pain, always, a heart had irrevocably to be broken. But wasn't it better to have a broken heart than to have never known if one had a heart at all? 

He had almost forgotten how much he had loved the old songs when he was younger. They reminded him of the times when bards weren't yet educated at Oxenfurt, when they were simply travelling, lutes on their back exploring the world and telling the incredible stories of their adventures in their prized ballads. 

"The world is glowing, red and blue -"

His colleagues had always thought he was insane for wanting a life like this. Where would it bring him? Fame and money had to be looked for elsewhere, they weren't scattered on dusty trails. Finishing the song he immediately launched into the next one.

"- where there were flowers there's now frost and snow!" 

Well, where had it brought him? He let the last note vibrate a little. Which song next?

"If I could still do this thing once more: picking flowers with my lover! - "

He couldn't complain about this, really. And the old songs, they felt like coming home after a very long time spent away.

"I tried to be silent for a long time, but now I will sing like I used to - "

He threw a glance at Eskel, who was looking at the fire, silently sipping on his goblet, listening with intense attention. He enjoyed the music, Jaskier realised. 

"- they were noble people who asked me, and they can ask me for a lot more - "

He played a flourish that wasn't exactly in the original version, but sounded lovely like this. 

"- so I will sing for them, and write them poetry, and what they want I will do."

Listening to the last strum ebb away he went through his options. It was getting late, and maybe he had already sung enough for one night, wanting to only see how they were reacting, if they liked it. He could sing for them all winter long, if they wished, and maybe he even would if they didn't. But there was one more, a sad thing, and hadn't Eskel wanted old songs? 

"So I raised a falcon, for a bit more than a year - 

He wasn't sure, but was Vesemir smiling just a little bit?

"- but when I had tamed him and I put gold into his feathers - he rose up high into the sky and flew away -"

Maybe, just a hint of pleasure on his stern face?

" - since then I saw him fly, his feet adorned with silk - "

He wasn't sure. 

"- may the gods lead those together who want to love each other."

It was the oldest song Jaskier knew. The melody was simple, but it always worked. His wet nurse had sung it to him when he was a child, and he had sung it to himself later in Oxenfurt when very different songs had been all the rage and audiences didn't want to hear those old stories anymore. 

He gently muted the vibrating strings with his palm and looked up. Eskel was still looking at the fire, smiling at nothing in particular, bathed in the warm light. Vesemir seemed to be fast asleep. 

Cradling the lute Jaskier enjoyed the silence following the music, how the space around them seemed to close in further, the vanished sound still hovering somewhere just beyond their reach. 

A noise from the door drew his attention, and he realised that Lambert was leaning against the wall there, in the half-dark just outside the sphere of light, arms crossed in front of his chest. Jaskier hadn't heard him enter, too occupied with singing and playing, easily missing his almost inaudible steps and the silent closing of the door. 

For a moment they just looked at each other in the darkness, and Jaskier was half-afraid of the comment that was sure to come. But Lambert only stood there for a moment longer and then walked over to the cabinet in the wall, poured himself a glass of what Jaskier assumed was White Gull and settled down in the free armchair opposite. Raising his glass to Eskel and Jaskier he drank. 

"So that's our evening entertainment now?"

He eyed the lute, but he didn't seem overly annoyed with the situation. Eskel grinned, raising his own goblet and toasting Jaskier. 

"He needs to earn his keep, and I'd say he'll do a great job. Don't frown, Lambert, I saw you standing there, and you liked it just as much as I did."

Growling Lambert drank again, cast a glance at Vesemir who was apparently still asleep, and placed his goblet on the floor next to his chair. 

"And why's everyone else asleep?"

But Eskel only shrugged. Lambert looked at Vesemir for a moment and past Eskel towards the camp bed, which he could see better from his angle than Jaskier. The frown was still on his face, but it suddenly made way for a rather unnerving grin. Reaching down he pulled a small, but sharp looking knife from his boots. 

"Let's have a bet, Eskel. Been a long day, everyone is soundly asleep, aren't they?"

He turned the knife between his fingers with all the carelessness of a seasoned bandit. Eskel groaned. 

"Don't even think about it and let us have a calm evening for once."

But Lambert was apparently up to no good and not willing to drop his plans anytime soon. 

"It is a most peaceful evening. But I could use a hunting trophy for my room, and who says no to some albino wolf fur?"

He got up while speaking, slowly and stealthily moving through the room towards the fireplace. Eskel leant back, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"You know I won't save you if he impales you on your own sword later."

But Lambert wasn't to be persuaded anymore. He had already almost reached his target, and Jaskier couldn't help but look on in a mixture of horror and grudging admiration at how silently Lambert could move, how Eskel was seemingly appalled at the thought but spent no second getting involved. 

In the meantime Lambert had arrived at the fireplace, kneeling down and slowly raising the little knife. Jaskier had to push himself up slightly from his chair to see him reach out to pick up one of the white strands of Geralt's hair.

He never got to touch it. At a speed that made Jaskier flinch violently Geralt's hand shot up from where it had been lying just seconds ago, long fingers wrapping around Lambert's wrist. In one smooth motion Geralt pushed his arm away, twisting his own body on the camp bed so he turned and rose onto his knees, as a result being able to use force in a downward motion. Now Lambert was facing the ground, with Geralt in his back who could easily hold him down by the scruff of the neck like this, having his whole bodyweight at his disposal. The little knife had clattered to the ground long ago. 

They stayed like this a moment, Geralt looking down at Lambert, who was apparently just as surprised as Jaskier. 

"Can't I sleep in peace for once? I got a fucking headache, so piss off."

It was at that moment that Vesemir cracked an eye open.

"Geralt."

It was all he said, but his voice held a myriad of meanings and even Jaskier could decipher a few of them. Growling at Lambert once more Geralt pushed him down and away while letting go. But instead of settling back on the camp bed he got up, and while Lambert picked himself and his knife up from the floor he stalked around the room to the cabinet, poured himself a goblet and settled in the armchair next to Jaskier, furthest away from the fire. Leaning back he scowled at Lambert, who had sat back down himself, returning his little knife to his boots, unshaken. 

It was the second time in two days that Jaskier had watched Geralt overpower him in some way, and again Jaskier was surprised at the sheer speed with which he had been able to do so. It reminded him of how easily Geralt had flipped Eskel around in the courtyard earlier, a slightly similar move that was built on the combination of speed and strength. 

In the meantime Vesemir closed his eye and returned to his apparent state of slumbering without further comment. It was Eskel who had to smoothen the waves, being obviously annoyed. 

"Told you it wouldn't work. Listen, I had a wonderful bath, the incredibly rare pleasure of music and now you two will shut up and be sociable."

He sounded just a little bit like the matron at the temple school Jaskier had unfortunately spent some time at, and he couldn't help but be impressed. Lambert was looking as if he wasn't bothered at all by his defeat, and Geralt, while still glaring at him, simply slumped back in his armchair, legs spread wide, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. 

"All I want is a little peace, is that too much to ask for around here?"

Eskel leant forward and shot him a sympathetic glance. 

"Have you ever had peace at Kaer Morhen?"

Shrugging Geralt raised his goblet and tipped back the entire contents. Lambert wanted to say something, but apparently decided against it. Eskel nodded his approval. 

"That's how it works, silence suits all of you best. Our guest will think us nothing but animals."

Lambert twisted his empty goblet between his fingers. 

"Well, some of us surely are more of an animal than others - "

He didn't finish his sentence, but it triggered two things simultaneously. Geralt made an almost involuntary forward motion, rising from his chair and looking frighteningly like a predator ready to pounce while at the same time Vesemir's eyes snapped open and he was on his feet in an instant, moving between where Lambert was sitting and Geralt was almost standing with impossible speed.

"Lambert, with me. Now. And you will sit down."

He was speaking to Lambert but looking at Geralt, standing very close to him, almost chest to chest. For a moment they stared at each other, and then Geralt gave in and, very slowly, sank back down in his chair. Blocking him from getting up again Vesemir waited until Lambert had put down his goblet and moved from his chair, herding him outside. The heavy door slammed shut behind them.

Jaskier sat in his chair, his lute cradled to his chest and couldn't help but stare. 

"So much for my peaceful evening. Really, must you always?"

Eskel sounded like someone capitulating in front of the overwhelming facts, but Geralt jumped from his chair again, starting to pace the room, arms crossed in front of his chest. Jaskier noticed how tense he was, fingers digging into his arms. He seemed mere seconds away from losing his composure in a fit of rage, a frightening possibility. 

"So now it's my fault again?"

He was growling, deep in his throat, a dangerous low sound. But Eskel seemed unmoved. 

"Lambert's brainless schemes aren't, but your reaction is. Come on, we've known him since he was a snotty three-year-old. He's done worse things to us than trying to cut your fucking hair off while you're asleep and then insulting you with the most boring thing he can think of. Remember when he was fifteen and begged you take him out on the path with you, and when you told him to fuck off he snapped and stole my horse to try and run from Kaer Morhen?"

Perking up Jaskier leant forward, listening. Eskel kept his eyes on the still pacing Geralt, but he noticed that Jaskier's attention was now on him and continued. 

"You do well to listen, songbird, because it's quite a story. What a mess! Had to borrow Vesemir's horse, and we spent two nights tracking him down in the forest. Of course he had no idea where to go and gotten terribly lost. When we found him he was on the brink of being eaten by a few wargs, and he was snotty enough to afterwards give us notes on our fighting. Brought him back home tied up and gagged and it was my pleasure to personally tan his hide for the insolence. And do you remember how Vesemir kept messing up the counts on purpose?"

Jaskier could well imagine the whole scenario. It surprised him, though, that Lambert had tried to run from Kaer Morhen. Was that a regular occurrence? What had he been fleeing from?

Geralt apparently had fond memories of that particular incident as well.

"He just kept saying seven, seven, seven all over again. Felt almost sorry for the little bastard, he was messed up afterwards."

He had stopped his pacing, now leaning his forearms on the back rest of one of the armchairs, wrists dangling. Apparently Eskel had known exactly how to handle his little fits of temper, talking him back into some slight sense of sanity. 

"Don't be, we all had scars from the whip on our backs. The trials took care of that."

Nodding Geralt looked at his hands. 

"Just so we can get messed up all over again."

Eskel grinned, tapping a finger to the scar on his face. 

"Exactly. Sit down, let us drink and talk, and forget about Lambert and his antics. How's the headache?"

Acquiescing Geralt moved over from where he was leaning against the armchair, settling down again and approving of the Skellige rum Eskel offered him. But he remained somehow restless, tapping a finger against the armrest of the chair, unfocused and sometimes not listening to the conversation. 

It didn't matter much, because Eskel was apparently just as used to Geralt's brooding silence as Jaskier was, and kept the conversation flowing easily without any input from this side. Jaskier, on the other hand, was listening intently, sometimes absently minded strumming a few chords on his lute in tune with Eskel’s story, asking questions here and there. 

Unsurprisingly it turned out that Eskel was a wonderful storyteller, and he had indeed had a pleasant summer by the coast. He explained in colourful detail how he'd made his way up early in spring, stumbled over a distraught and very rich owner of a fleet of fishing boats having a rather intense problem with a colony of sirens lodging nearby. He didn't want them dead, just decimated and told how to behave, which required a witcher for a bit longer than a few days. He had offered Eskel a cottage by the sea and two month of payment, and Eskel had gladly accepted. Striking a deal with the sirens within a week he had then spent his two months lounging by the seaside, pretending to be very busy all the time and otherwise soaking in the sun, swimming, fishing and otherwise enjoying his life. Apparently after the first month chance had brought another witcher from Kaer Morhen into the area, Milos, who was promptly roped into Eskel's scheme and enlisted into the siren control program. Eskel described their antics in joyous detail, how they had shared the cottage and the contract for a while, until Milos had moved on to continue on his path, bound for the interior. 

Jaskier couldn't believe his ears. He couldn't even imagine Geralt doing something like that, enjoying himself that easily in the sun, indulging in a lucky chance and taking full advantage of what life offered. 

Playing a little flourish that he thought might sound like siren song Jaskier felt a bit jealous of Eskel's good fortune. 

"And the sirens agreed with your ideas of population control?"

Eskel sipped his rum and couldn't answer for the moment, so Geralt took the opportunity. 

"The sirens were equally enchanted with Eskel as he was with them."

That didn't quite make sense to Jaskier, and apparently it showed on his face because Geralt helpfully clarified what he had meant. 

"He fucked them, Jaskier."

Snorting into his goblet Eskel had to cough to clear his throat. 

"Not all of them! You make me sound like a pervert."

Lifting an eyebrow Geralt shot Eskel a glance, his voice dry and matter-of-fact.

"You are a pervert, there's no way around it. May I remind you of that one time you fucked a bloody succubus just to see how your stamina would hold up?"

Jaskier would have dropped his lute had it not been safely cradled in his lap and been a priceless elven instrument. 

"You did what?"

Eskel displayed the most filthy grin and shrugged. 

"Take what you can get I say. It was quite an experience, though I must admit the fisstech helped."

Of course they took drugs, what had Jaskier expected? Witchers drank like everyone else on the continent, were quite liberal in their use of hallucinogens and whatever concoctions they had around, depending on artificial adrenaline kicks for their more intense battles. Fisstech, though, wasn't quite what he would have expected. It went around at the courts, of course, expensive white powder that made you high, happy and believing you were immortal. Which, maybe, was just the thing one needed if one wanted to indulge in sex with a succubus. 

"How did you even survive that?"

Eskel was still grinning, but Geralt shook his head and sipped his own rum. 

"Dumb luck, that's how. And a whole lot of fisstech."

Looking slightly offended Eskel shot a glance at Geralt, and then turned towards Jaskier and explained in very great and completely unnecessary detail how exactly one went about to sleeping with a succubus, including very impressive descriptions of how to avoid being killed by their energy sucking tendencies, which was where a combination of witcher stamina and the whole lot of fisstech came into play. He gladly broadened his topic on sexual encounters with non-human creatures in general, and elaborated eloquently until even Jaskier was suitably impressed, though far from blushing. 

An hour later Jaskier climbed up the stairs to his rooms, lute securely on his back, his head swimming with details about witchers he would probably never get out of his head. Everything about him itched to write the most lewd song of all times about the breathtaking acrobatics Eskel had told him about, and he was deeply disappointed that he'd never be able to perform it somewhere. It was all jolly and good to sing songs about heroic endeavour, but good grief, the sexual adventures Eskel had spoken about would make any tavern heave with enthusiasm. People would be delighted, that was for sure, Jaskier could already see the coin roll. 

But alas, it wasn't to happen. At least the evening had been very educational, for Jaskier had to admit that while he had slept with dashing ladies and lovely gentlemen all over the continent he had never managed to venture outside of his own race. They had all been humans, beautiful ones, sure, but nevertheless humans. But then how often did the opportunity to sleep with a non-human being that was capable of enthusiastic consent arose? Barely, if ever. 

Jaskier wasn't alone in noting that these opportunities were few and far between. There was a very small subset of humans who were interested in sleeping with someone who was just a little bit less human than they were, and while they were rare they existed - which Jaskier knew, because they tended to wash up at whatever table at a tavern Geralt occupied at that moment. It was the other side of the coin, barely balancing out the sneers and hatred thrown their way wherever they showed up. But they were there, mostly young men and women who set their eyes on Geralt and immediately decided to get a taste of witcher that night. Their motives weren't honourable, in Jaskier's mind, having nothing to do with Geralt himself but mostly with the fact that there was some mystique around him that they wanted to taste test, just to see what it would smell like on their skin afterwards. 

Geralt didn't always turn them down. It wasn't too different from sleeping with a prostitute, just that these people were a bit more eager and not interested in his coin. He paid them with something different instead, and Jaskier had come to the strange impression that sometimes it was easier for Geralt to hand over his body than to give away some of his coin. 

At the same time Jaskier couldn't fault those humans for their curiosity, because, if truth were to be told, when he had followed Geralt out of that tavern years ago he had entertained the same thought from time to time. The whole thing had been a business opportunity at first, a good chance to experience the world for a while, find amazing material for his songs, become rich and famous. But beyond that Geralt had been incredibly enticing. It had been the usual superficial thing, at first, a thrill of otherness mixed with what Jaskier thought was a most handsome face, an impressively strong body and those terrifyingly soulful and sad eyes. Geralt had been unpredictable, slightly dangerous to be around and it had triggered just the right reflexes in Jaskier who sometimes needed to look into the abyss to remember how to breathe properly.

But the feeling of danger evaporated the longer he spent time around Geralt, the better Jaskier got to know him. What had been alien became familiar, what had been unpredictable behaviour mostly made sense if Jaskier just put himself in Geralt's shoes, and the almost annoyingly noble mindset with which Geralt moved through life made him almost mindnumbingly endearing. His body was still wonderful to Jaskier, but it was familiar territory by now, the landscape of muscles and scars around Geralt's bones well-worn ground for Jaskier's hands. 

The easier their intimacy had become the further Jaskier had pushed his thoughts of ever being able to do more than just caring and tending back in his mind. Neither he nor Geralt were prudes, and he was relatively sure that Geralt would easily have taken him to bed if he had just asked. But he never asked, not being exactly sure why. So it was that still, after all these years he sometimes looked at Geralt and felt that strange old longing again, just for a moment, raising its head and then vanishing into the depth of Jaskier's soul again. 

It was only a matter of time before it would return this winter, but Jaskier knew he could cope. This knowledge didn't stop him from sleeping very well that night, though, with dreams that were chaotic, slightly lascivious and entirely pleasant.

He woke late the next morning, washing in a bowl with cold water, dressing again in the cerulean tunic that was quickly becoming his favourite and venturing outside. He found the kitchen on the second try, but nobody was there. The pot of kasha was still hot and he simply helped himself, for once enjoying the silence in the kitchen that was only interrupted by the crackling fire in the background. 

Outside the sun was shining again, and Jaskier took the chance to go for a little morning stroll through the fortress. He visited the stables and found them empty, the horses apparently having been taking outside to the paddock. Strolling around the keep once he found the upper courtyard surprisingly busy.

One of the strange machines he had seen there had been put into motion, and he watched Lambert in full armour balance over the beams rammed into the ground while skilfully avoiding the swinging arms of the pendulum. He had his sword in one hand and moved with impressive skill and speed, seemingly weightless, twisting and shifting always on time to avoid being hit while placing blows on the dummy at the other end of the construction. Only on the second glance Jaskier noticed that he was blindfolded, and was almost speechless with admiration. He had no idea how this was supposed to work, but acknowledged that he would probably be beaten black and blue and thrown off the construction within seconds. 

But no one else admired Lambert's feats. On the ground next to the machine Vesemir and Geralt were exchanging slow sword blows, back and forth, not actually fighting but rather practising a specific movement again and again. Eskel was sitting on one of the low walls, watching them, his own sword on his back, another leaning against the wall next to him. It seemed like a safe bet for Jaskier to stroll around the machine, avoid Vesemir and Geralt and join Eskel.

"Good morning, songbird, had a good night? You slept so long we thought you were dead."

Climbing next to him on the wall Jaskier turned his face to the sun, humming an answer and for a moment closing his eyes. The sound of steel against steel, Vesemir's occasional comments and the swings from the construction Lambert was using offered an interesting background music, and when he opened his eyes again he could admire the view over Morhen valley onto the Blue Mountains where more snow had fallen last night. Clouds were already gathering on the horizon, bringing the threat of bad weather.

"Keep that angle, don't drop your - no, you're doing it again. How many times have I told you not to twist your wrist right there? The angle is terrible, don't open up like that. Again."

The same three movements seemed to repeat, the impact of steel on steel, steps on the ground. 

"Stop right there. Level the side - yes, exactly. Now look at your feet, your balance is all shot if you keep your weight forwards. Lean back, just a bit. Eh, you don't believe me?"

He heard the swosh of a blade and a heavy blow being placed, followed by two fast steps. 

"See, that's what I mean."

Eskel next to him shifted. 

"He did parry, though."

Vesemir grunted, but Jaskier heard he was not happy. 

"But it wasn't clean. This is about technique, a sword isn't a large butter knife you can just throw around. Again."

Opening his eyes he watched Geralt raise his sword once more, this time apparently doing what Vesemir told him. The hefty blow fell again, Geralt parried - low on the guard, using the strongest part of his blade - and deflected. At the same time he took two fast steps forward, against instinct in the direction Vesemir's blade had gone from his parry, using the fact that Vesemir's chest was opening unguarded and quickly imitating a stabbing movement. The tip of his blade was against Vesemir's shoulder, who didn't have enough time to absorb the blow into another parry. 

He didn't look happy with this particular development. 

"What now, you're trying to tell me you can defend yourself? Are you twelve again? I don't want you to show off your speed, I want to see that you can actually handle this sword properly. Three steps back, and again."

Rolling his eyes Geralt retreated, took the prescribed three steps back and raised his sword again. For an instant he looked at Jaskier and tilted his head in a greeting. Jaskier waved back, smiling. 

"Listen, I'm bored. Won't you cross blades with me? I'll take you to the kitchen afterwards, you can help me with dinner."

Eskel had turned to him, a mischievous grin on his face. Looking at the sword at his feet - a little bit lighter than the average steel sword witchers used, a little bit shorter - Jaskier realised that this had probably been planned well in advance, and sighed. 

"I'll gladly help you with cooking, but I'm not sure I'm useful with a blade. Maybe get Lambert down from this terrifying construction?"

Both looked over where Lambert had just masterfully avoided another swing of the pendulum with a well-balanced spin and almost decapitated the dummy. 

"No, he likes it up there. We fought earlier, Vesemir will probably beat him up a bit later when he's done telling Geralt that he's the worst fighter in existence. Why don't you indulge me for now?"

Realising that he'd hardly get out of this until he outright refused the request Jaskier went through his options. Sure, he could show himself as being stubborn, but would it be of any help? Sooner or later they'd know, and it made sense to take the opportunity. Who could say they had received lessons in swordsmanship from a witcher? Sighing again, but this time more profusely Jaskier slipped off the wall. 

"Fine, but I have no idea what I'm doing here. Please don't kill me."

Jumping down with more energy than Jaskier had anticipated Eskel grinned, enjoying his success. 

"Geralt would skin me alive, and I have no intention of experiencing that. Here's a nice little blade, not too heavy. Held a sword before?"

Picking up the extra sword he handed it over to Jaskier, watching him unsheathe it and weighing it in his hand. 

"Ah, you have. Good. Let's go over there and see."

Motioning for Jaskier to move a bit to the side so they wouldn't intrude on Vesemir and Geralt he guided them to an open space near to the defence wall where they had space to move. Following him Jaskier couldn't help but notice that Geralt had apparently understood what they were about to do, craning his neck and almost paying for his lack of attention with being hit by Vesemir who promptly scolded him for his carelessness.

Eskel in the meantime had drawn his own blade and stood on the free space, casually taking on the usual stance of one foot back, one front, his sword pointing in Jaskier's direction. Jaskier assumed the same stance, weight solidly distributed between both legs, sword in his right hand. For a moment he tried to figure out how long it was since he had held a sword properly for the last time, stood poised to train with it, but he only came up blank. Fifteen years, maybe? 

"Looks good to me, now let's see. What will you do if I hit you like this?"

Eskel placed a careful blow against Jaskier's blade, using what probably was less than a quarter of his strength, and Jaskier parried without thinking. He received a nod of approval in return, and Eskel followed up with a blow from the other side which Jaskier parried again easily. 

It was the basic pattern he had learnt in his youth - right, left, right, up, down, up, taking three steps back and three steps forth, switching between parrying and dealing light blows. He hadn't done it in a while, but his body remembered how to adjust to the additional weight of the sword, how to parry, to place a blow. It required a good deal of concentration, though, and Jaskier completely forgot everything around him repeating the pattern again and again. 

Suddenly Geralt appeared next to Eskel, his own sword loosely held in his right hand, watching with interest. For a moment they stopped their exchange, and Jaskier realised that Vesemir was now busy working with Lambert, who had come down from the machine and was on the receiving end of Vesemir's tuition. 

"Did you know your songbird can do a bit more than just trill prettily?"

Eskel turned to Geralt, very satisfied with his discovery. Geralt hummed a reply, raising his own sword. 

"Sure. May I try myself?"

Jaskier nodded, turning slightly so he was now facing Geralt and they repeated more or less the same pattern as before. It was interesting to do the same steps with someone else, Geralt's blows being slightly stronger than Eskel's, angled differently, his sword itself seemingly more weighty. 

They kept the lazy patter for a while, and then Geralt started to vary the blows a bit more. Jaskier realised quickly that he was actually testing if Jaskier was familiar with the more common parries, adding blows from the side to the usual crosscuts. He kept it simple and clean, though, including no stabbing motions or over the head blows that would be more hefty and difficult to block. Instead he just followed the most common patterns of blows used for training, everything familiar to Jaskier, even if he was a bit rusty. Eskel was watching from the sidelines, clearly amused. 

"You're doing well, Jaskier, I wonder - "

He placed two quick blows, and without thinking Jaskier followed his lead, parrying and then pushing back. It came from nowhere, completely on instinct, but he knew what to do: he parried the third blow low while pushing Geralt's blade slightly upwards until it was almost horizontally, held his own blade almost at level, turning it slightly upwards, the guard of his blade close to the tip of Geralt's sword. Pulling his own blade up in a quick movement on the outside of Geralt's blade, gliding it over until it was on the inside he twisted his wrist and slammed down hard. It worked only because Geralt had a very loose grip on his sword, knew what was coming and made no movement to block the manoeuvre. It was the oldest trick in the book, a very basic disarming move, but Jaskier was delighted to see the effect of it, Geralt's blade pushed from his hand and clattering to the ground. 

Eskel was voicing his approval by thumping his sword against his own thigh twice. 

"Well done, you do know a thing or two. Let me guess, couple of years of training? Sword, horseback riding, what else?"

Geralt picked his sword up from the ground in a fluid motion. 

"Dagger, he's good with that one. Bow, maybe?"

Jaskier felt slightly uneasy at the questioning.

"Well, not a crossbow. Never used one of those."

Suddenly he felt how heavy the blade was, and how his palms were hurting from the unusual strain. Geralt brought his sword back up again as if it weighed nothing, focused on Jaskier. 

"Right, now how do you hold your hand if you have to parry above your head?"

A light blow fell from above, and Jaskier had the blade up just in time to avoid being hit. Geralt stopped the movement right there, his blade enough of a weight on Jaskier's sword to force him to keep it up. Eskel had walked around, standing close, inspecting the grip of his hand. 

"Sure enough, looks very northern to me. Look at the open palm, it uses just the right muscles for someone of light built."

For a moment Jaskier felt like an object of interest, uncomfortable under the curious gaze. He was glad when Geralt lifted his sword again and he could allow his own blade to sink. Eskel continued his loud but careful consideration. 

"So, what do we have here - a few years of training, by someone who knew what they were doing. It's been a while, but the drill is still there. The way you hold the sword tells me you prefer to use that dagger of yours, probably because it's lighter. You're a close-range fighter, aren't you, songbird? A swift reverse grip, a blade between the ribs, and nobody is any wiser. Dangerous."

He kept looking Jaskier up and down.

"Light built, you didn't move like an armoured fighter would. Not a knight, never trained to be one. Your fencing was more part of good breeding."

He turned around, apparently having come to a conclusion. Jaskier felt cool dread pool in his stomach.

"Geralt, you got yourself a nobleman for company!"

Shrugging Geralt replaced his sword on his back and stretched his shoulders absent-mindedly.

"Lower nobility at best, so don't get excited."

Mildly amused Eskel spun around, light on his feet like a dancer, imitating a curtsey that looked absolutely ridiculous on a man wearing armour wielding a sword like it weighed nothing at all. Jaskier felt the blush rising, the ever so slight discomfort of being found out. 

"So what are we, a count? A baron? A princeling?"

Feeling his ears burn Jaskier turned around, searching help or at least understanding with Geralt. What he found was mild amusement, and it immediately helped to dissolve the dread that had his stomach knotted. Witchers generally didn't like the nobility - nobody in their right mind did, if Jaskier was honest, and he exactly knew why - and Geralt had never made any attempts to disguise his dislike for the ruling class, despite the fact that he sometimes had to deal with them, move amongst courtly circles to get a contract or fulfil one.

"Eskel, if he doesn't want to tell it's his prerogative. Don't get hung up on it."

Looking as if someone had withheld a gift from him Eskel gave Jaskier something that would have been puppy eyes on someone who wasn't a witcher and looked terrifying on Eskel. 

"No, it's all right. Viscount, that's it. Just a viscount. No heir to the throne, just some title. Doesn't matter."

Eskel looked delighted at the confession. 

"That's not too shabby, makes you a king amongst mutts here. So what surname goes with Jaskier? Doesn't sound very noble to me."

Geralt rolled his eyes, and set himself in motion. 

"You do realise that's not his actual name? I'll go back to the keep for food. Join me or stay here, your choice."

Jaskier stood there for a moment, wondering how he could save this situation and what he was supposed to do with the sword. Eskel solved his last problem by holding out a hand and taking it from him. 

"We should put it on your back, your highness, would you make look like a noble witcher."

Geralt stopped, turning around and glaring at Eskel, slight annoyance visible in his face. 

"Don't you want to go to the kitchen and wait for us there? We'll join you in a minute."

Crossing his arms again his stance made clear that he wanted Eskel gone, and to Jaskier's surprise Eskel complied. Taking the sword Jaskier had used with him he marched towards where Vesemir and Lambert were still sparring, no doubt to tell them the exciting news. Jaskier already dreaded the impact it would have. 

Apparently it showed on his face. Grumbling something under his breath Geralt set himself into motion, caught Eskel before he arrived close enough to talk to anyone and pulled him aside. They had a fast and almost muted conversation which ended with Eskel raising his hands, nodding towards Jaskier once, apparently promising silence. Turning he vanished towards the keep without interrupting Vesemir and Lambert's sparring session. 

When he returned Geralt steered Jaskier towards the lower courtyards where the horses were in the paddock. Biel and Roach were standing next to each other grazing, while the three others stood scattered enjoying the last grass before winter would come. 

Geralt leant against the fence, clicking his tongue once. Immediately Roach's head went up and she snorted, setting herself into motion. In a lazy amble she came to the fence, happily pushing her head into Geralt's hands and allowing him to stroke her head. Biel, ever the unfaithful, remained where he was and continued to graze. 

Leaning on the fence next to Geralt Jaskier tried to find a way to phrase his apology and didn't find one. 

"You seem to expect me to be angry."

Rubbing Roach's head Geralt progressed to scratch the spot behind her soft ears she was especially fond of having rubbed. 

"You don't have a very high opinion about nobility in general. And, you know, I didn't tell you I was, uhm, nobility by birth? I should have, I just don't like talking about it. I didn't even give you my full name."

Looking at him Geralt continued to caress Roach's ears until she shook her head and he let go, instead petting her neck while she draped herself against the fence, rubbing her nose against Jaskier's shoulder. 

"Does your full name matter?"

Shrugging Jaskier gently touched Roach's long forehead to see if he could pet her as well. She seemed to be specifically generous that day, allowing him to gently stroke down her nose once or twice before shaking her head and accidentally hitting Geralt in the chest with a heavy thud. He took a step back to find his balance again, disapprovingly clicking his tongue. Roach flicked her ears as if to apologise. 

"Isn't that the most basic thing to know about the person you travel and sometimes share a bed with? I only gave you the name I made up for myself."

He didn't quite understand why Geralt wasn't angry, or at least disappointed or - whatever. But now he was smiling faintly, lifting an eyebrow. 

"You did introduce yourself when I first met you with a name, so why does it matter? You know I made up my own name, at least most of it - or do you still believe I'm actually from Rivia?"

Not knowing where to put his hands when not touching Roach Jaskier fidgeted with the fastenings of his jacket, then the hem of the cerulean tunic. 

"No, of course not. But you didn't, I don't know, hide from me that you're a witcher."

Now Geralt looked genuinely amused, his eyebrow climbing higher. 

"I can hardly hide that fact. And wasn't it the main reason why you started following me around?"

Nodding Jaskier reined his nervousness in, dropping the hem of the tunic. Of course Geralt was right. 

"Yes, well. So do you want my full name and everything?"

Geralt tilted his head. 

"No, why should I want that? Jaskier is enough."

Roach took the opportunity to neigh, and, being bored that she wasn't the focus of attention anymore, shoved Geralt once more with her head before trotting off back to where Biel was grazing.

"Right." Jaskier looked at his own hands, and then up again. "Thanks."

Geralt, who had followed Roach's return to Biel with his gaze looked back at Jaskier again. 

"What for this time?"

He seemed to genuinely desire to know, and Jaskier felt the need to elaborate. 

"That you don't care about my name and everything. I left it behind on purpose, and I don't want it back. It wasn't - " He faltered, finding it suddenly difficult to talk about these things. 

He hadn't spoken about his family with anyone in what seemed like decades. Nobody knew where he came from, who he was and what he had left behind, and he had always preferred it that way. It was strange how Eskel had managed to invoke ghosts that had been sleeping for all these years with the sheer request to know his name, and Jaskier needed nothing more than to push these undead phantoms back into their resting place. They weren't welcome here, not now, not when the sun was shining and the keep was rising behind him, with the fresh wind bringing the scent of winter from the mountains. There was no space for his ghosts in Kaer Morhen. 

Leaning against the fence with his back towards the horses Geralt followed Jaskier's gaze towards the keep. 

"Jaskier, we're more or less nameless here. Didn't you listen when Eskel called us mutts? We don't care about these things. Eskel is taking the piss, don't let him rile you up. He can be like that."

Nodding Jaskier exhaled, slowly feeling himself relax again. 

"So what's that with Eskel and you? You're, I don't know, close?"

He wanted to say brothers, but he wasn't sure how Geralt would take it, especially since he had denied having any sort of family relations with his fellow witchers - possibly the most outrageous lie Jaskier had ever caught him at. 

"Grew up together. Vesemir picked Eskel up shortly after he had found me, we've lived together all our lives."

He pushed himself off the fence, making motions to go back to the keep now that Jaskier had apparently gotten out of his system whatever he needed to speak about. 

"Did you go through the trials together?"

The mention of the trials stopped Geralt in his tracks. He turned around again, leaning against the fence once more. 

"In parts. It's a long process, you can't go through it together. Boys at Kaer Morhen were always trained in groups where everyone was the same age. We'd been together since childhood, and when we were of the right age and had enough training we went through the trials one after another. But when you're there, in the darkness, it's just you and death. That's all." 

His voice was sombre and detached, but Jaskier picked up on the underlying discomfort. Geralt had never spoken of the trials, not even when directly asked and badgered about them. Jaskier had an inkling that it was a difficult topic, tied into painful memories Geralt wasn't keen on reliving anytime soon. 

"Right. But you both made it!"

It was supposed to cheer Geralt up, but he only sighed. For a moment he tipped his head back and looked to the sky before turning to Jaskier. It seemed like he wanted to say something, but instead he only shook his head, slowly. Turning towards the paddock again he looked past Jaskier, towards the side where the empty meadow lay, the nearly collapsing defence wall rising behind it. Apparently staring into nothingness he leant there, just for a few seconds, before letting go of the fence. Now he really turned towards Jaskier, looking him up and down. 

"Did Vesemir give you these clothes?"

Jaskier was surprised about the abrupt change of topic, finding Geralt scrutinizing his jacket. Without asking he reached out and touched it, slowly peeling it back a little so he could see the cerulean tunic underneath. Jaskier was the last person to complain about being carefully touched like this, but there was something about the frown on Geralt's forehead that made him wonder. 

With strange and uncalled for concentration Geralt looked at the tunic. Then he cast a quick look at Jaskier's face. 

"May I?"

Jaskier nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. With great care Geralt brushed a gentle finger over the embroidery on the neckline of the tunic, barely touching it, only feeling the fabric and the silver thread. His fingertips followed the ornamental stitching, his face suddenly soft and lost in thought. Then he cleared his throat, stepping back and straightening again. 

He said nothing, but Jaskier simply had to ask. 

"You know who this belonged to and Eskel looked at me like he had seen a ghost. Should I stop wearing it?"

Geralt looked at him, and then shook his head. 

"Don't worry about Eskel, he'll cope and so will I. It's just been a very long time since I've seen this thing."

It was very obvious that Geralt didn't want to talk about it and wasn't going to, but Jaskier wasn't going to let it go anytime soon.

"So did he - the trials, I mean, what happened to him?"

Geralt had again turned around to leave, so Jaskier could only ask the question to his back. He didn't stop in his movement, and Jaskier had to hurry to catch up with him. They moved quickly away from the paddock, past the enclosure where the chickens were kept and were almost in the upper courtyard again when Geralt stopped for a moment, looking at Jaskier from the side. 

"Gone, Jaskier. That's what happens during the trials." He seemed strangely emotional for a moment, completely out of character, but it was gone as quickly as it had happened. 

"Don't put a sword on your back while you're here. Carry one on your belt like you humans do, work on your fighting, but don't wear it on your back. Be glad you don't have to be someone who wears it that way."

He paused, but then turned away. 

"You'll find your way to the kitchen? I'll go and see what needs to be done with the roof."

And with that he turned around, stalking away from Jaskier with sudden haste, leaving him to stand in the courtyard wondering what exactly he was running away from now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering: Jaskier sings a variety of songs that date roughly between 1150 - 1230, middle central/western europe. The Witcher series - the books - are roughly dated sometime around the end of the 13th century (I mean, it is fantasy, but that's the official area it's set in), so these songs would be old. Jaskier sings "Diu welt was gelf, rôt unde blâ" (The world was shining, red and blue), "Ein niuwer summer, ein niuwe zit" (A new summer, a new time) and "Lange swîgen des hât ich gedâcht" (I tried to be silent for a long time), all latest 1230, from Walther von der Vogelweide, and "Ich zôch mir einen valken" (I raised a falcon) from late 12th century from a poet simply called of Kürenberg. The snippets he sings are translated from middle high german for this fic, molded just a little bit to flow better into the rythm of my own writing. More songs might pop up in other chapters. I felt it would be nice to give him actual songs travelling bards sang, given he'd have been a colleague of Walther - if he were real, of course. 
> 
> Chapter titel "Inside the fabric of my feelings / I am reeling. Disarranged" from the poem "Bunches of a nest" by Diane Metha, recently published in the New York Times. The poem doesn't fit this fic at all, but I couldn't get this sentence out of my head.


	7. I don't want to sell my life for money /

The rain came in the early afternoon. It fell heavily and without pause, soon turning the courtyards into a muddy disaster, puddles of brown water pooling everywhere. Darkness fell soon and swiftly, the days already getting shorter now. Kaer Morhen looked dismal in this weather, grey and more broken than usual.

But Jaskier didn't mind. He spent most of his afternoon helping Eskel in the kitchen preparing not only dinner but also dealing with the venison, adding a few new butchering techniques to his repertoire. He learnt quickly, and Eskel was satisfied with his use of the sharp butcher's knife he had handed Jaskier. 

"Good with a knife, just like I said. Don't look at me like that, it was supposed to be a compliment."

He didn't seem bothered at all by what had happened earlier, but he also didn't question Jaskier further. He had seemed so very curious in the courtyard, but for some reason he was easily capable of dropping the topic, simply ignoring it and moving on with his usual banter. It relieved Jaskier to no end, and they easily slipped back into their companionable chit-chat. 

Unprompted Eskel launched into a lengthy monologue on food, a topic he was apparently very fond of, and indulged Jaskier with flowery descriptions of everything he had planned to cook during the next weeks, how he was going to use the venison, where it would be stored and what temperature would be best. He also cued Jaskier in on the delicious fact that he ran a little experiment on the side brewing apple cider in large barrels stored somewhere deep in the corridors leading away from the pantry and into the mountain. 

Jaskier mimed being surprised and asked one of the questions he had been waiting to get in for a while. 

"There's more storage in the mountains? Is there a basement of some sorts under Kaer Morhen? Exciting underground tunnels?"

Eskel nodded, looking not at Jaskier but at the large knife he was using to cut stripes of meat off the bone, his hands covered in the last remaining deer blood. 

"Indeed there are, a rather large system. But nobody uses it anymore, besides the few places we keep as storage. Could collapse any day, you shouldn't go there."

He said if off-handedly, but Jaskier practically smelled that there were things Eskel was not mentioning. 

"Sure. So why were these tunnels dug in the first place?"

Eskel focused on the scraping the last meat off the bone. 

"Lots of things, there's a few laboratories down there, you know, back in the day when there were still alchemists and mages at Kaer Morhen."

Stopping his work lest he accidentally chopped a finger off Jaskier immediately picked up on the offered morsel on information. 

"There were alchemists here?"

Well, it did make sense. Those horrible potions Geralt used had to come from somewhere, and so far he hadn't met a witcher who seemed able to invent them. Brew them, sure, he had seen Geralt do that. But invent them? No. 

Eskel shrugged, focussed on scraping the bone completely clean. 

"Of course, how did you think that whole process of mutation worked?"

If he was honest he hadn't thought about it at all, or at least not in gruesome detail. It made sense that potions would be involved, maybe some magic, but how it actually worked he couldn't fathom. 

"So you drink some potions and sleep it off and then you're a witcher?"

Eskel snorted, turning the bone once in his hands and examining it closely. 

"If it just were that easy."

With a firm grip he took the bone in both hands and snapped it in two. Using his sharp but thin knife as a spoon he pushed it deep into the marrow of the bone, digging up the grey insides. 

"Yellow marrow, high in fat, wonderful stuff. We'll make dumplings for the broth from it. Or cook it, excellent on bread. Works in healing salves as well, good on the skin."

Fascinated Jaskier listened and watched Eskel, who started to scrape the marrow from the bone with dedication, breaking the bone down further as he went. When all the marrow had made its way into a small bowl he seemed satisfied, placing the remains of the bone aside and with obvious delight licking the leftover marrow from his knife. It was halfway endearing and halfway savage, and Jaskier couldn't decide on which side he'd like to place it. Apparently it showed on his face, because when Eskel had properly cleaned the knife without slicing his tongue off he looked up, saw Jaskier's scrunched up face and grinned. 

"Tell you something, fancy songbird, we're all animals here. Get used to it."

And of course Jaskier couldn't keep his mouth shut. 

"Some of you seem to object to being called that."

Eskel shrugged, depositing his knife in the basin used for washing dishes and picked up a spoon to mash the bone marrow further into a paste. 

"Some of us have a chip on their shoulder when it comes to facing what we are. I have to admit that it's a bit more difficult for Geralt than for the rest of us."

He looked up from the bowl and saw Jaskier's face pulled into a lovely portrait of utter confusion.

"But why?"

Suddenly being completely taken up by his task of mashing the bone marrow Eskel focused back on the bowl for a moment. But he quickly realised Jaskier wasn't going to simply drop the topic, finally put down the spoon and cursed. 

"Could have guessed he isn't talking about it. And I shouldn't, so you'll have to ask or forget about it."

It did nothing to help with Jaskier's confusion, but Eskel straight up refused to say anything beyond kitchen talk after that, and Jaskier had to focus on peeling potatoes instead of finding out what was going on. 

Outside the rain continued to fall. Jaskier was glad to be stuck inside, even more so after he glanced through the kitchen windows and saw the shapes of the wet horses pass by, Lambert and Geralt leading them, both soaked to their bones. They passed through the kitchen almost an hour later, dripping rain onto the floor, leaving wet trails and muddy footprints behind them. 

Lambert looked into the pots critically and only left after Eskel threatened him with a kitchen knife and finally threw a bowl after him that he caught without looking and unceremoniously threw back. Geralt stayed a moment longer, warming his hands at the open fireplace after wringing out his hair in a pointless attempt to dry off. Jaskier wanted to chide him along the lines of the eternal warning that he'd catch a cold if he stayed like this, wet clothes plastered to his body, hair sticking to his head, and then realised that there was no point as Geralt could catch a lot but surely not a cold. Witchers didn't get sick, after all. 

Still Geralt stayed close to the fireplace, telling both Eskel and Jaskier that he had spent an hour climbing around the tower to examine the roof and found that it would need a bit more work than anticipated. He had gotten nowhere with fixing these issues as the rain had surprised him up there, and he had already been drenched when he had climbed down again and gone to bring in the horses, meeting Lambert halfway on his way to the paddock. 

He would probably have elaborated on the roof issue further, displaying an unusual amount of chattiness, had Eskel not shoved him out of the kitchen and told him to get dry clothing on himself and do something about the hair, apparently mostly for the reason that Geralt was still dripping all over the floor and being on kitchen duty meant that Eskel also had to clean the whole mess up afterwards. 

They all met again for dinner later, dry and relaxed, and enjoyed the first variety of venison Eskel had decided upon cooking. Everything was excellent, and when they moved on to the library Jaskier was very full, pleasantly sleepy and satisfied with the world as a whole.

Barely ten minutes later he was settled in the armchair closest to the fire with a thick volume of elven poetry he had found on the shelves that even the libraries at Oxenfurt had never been able to acquire for him, comfortably reading his way through the introduction with his feet on the little table Eskel had pulled up for the same reason the previous night. Vesemir was gently nodding off in the armchair opposite, and to his right Lambert and Geralt had set up a board game Jaskier had never seen before, playing a complicated game that included black and white pieces and dice, and apparently was based on luck as well as on strategic thinking. At first Jaskier had been doubtful if another of the scenes from the last two nights would repeat, but their disagreements seemed forgotten and they were only muttering to comment on the fate the dice prescribed them, cursing or making appreciative sounds at a good move. Eskel was still gone cleaning the kitchen. 

It was the perfect calm evening, and Jaskier found himself relaxing quickly and thoroughly. The fire was warming, and the rain hammering against the windows brought the perfect background sound to his comfort. It had turned into sleet as darkness had fallen, and Vesemir had predicted that the snow would maybe come sooner this winter than they had expected. 

Jaskier was halfway through the first part of the book, tapping out a rather exotic rhythm against his thigh and wondering how it would fit into his usual composition style when a movement to his right disturbed his thought process. Geralt, dice in his hand, had lifted his head, for a moment focusing on something beyond the next move on the board in front of him. Without putting the dice down he stood up, walked past Lambert's chair towards the windows and looked outside. There was hardly anything he could have seen, but he stared out into the darkness for a moment and then returned. 

Vesemir cracked an eye open, apparently always and never actually asleep. 

"Should be two, but sounds like only one."

Sitting down again Geralt cast a look at him that Jaskier couldn't quite place. 

"It's only one."

Then he threw the dice on the board, and cursed at his bad luck. Lambert looked from Vesemir to Geralt, apparently knowing fully well what they were talking about and appearing worried besides the fact that his next move took two of Geralt's white stones off the board. 

Nobody explained what they were talking about to Jaskier, so he focused on the poetry in front of him again. It was utterly beautiful, almost unsettling in its perfection. He'd need to copy a few of these poems, if not the entire volume, a good task for the cold winter days ahead of him. For now he set to memorise a poem he especially enjoyed, committing line by line to his memory with all the ease of someone who had done exactly this for decades. Jaskier's mind was a veritable library of music that could easily be expanded, and he could recite the poem within a short time. 

He was still busy making sure he had the exact wording securely stored in his mind when the door opened and Eskel marched into the room. 

He wasn't alone, and Jaskier stared at the newcomer with unashamed curiosity. It was obvious from the first glance that this wasn't a School of the Wolf witcher, especially when he came to a stop next to Eskel. He had apparently already been shown to a room and changed into dry clothing, with only his wet hair and beard betraying that the weather he had been travelling in was ghastly. He was smaller than Eskel and of a very different build, still obviously strong and powerful, yet much thinner, more lithe. Everything about him seemed a bit more ragged, a little bit less put together. If Jaskier was honest he looked less like a witcher and more like a bandit, with his dark hair and thick beard, a thin scar running down his forehead and through his eyebrow. His eyes weren't the soft golden amber all School of the Wolf witchers seemed to have in common but of a piercing green, bright but bloodshot. But he was dressed in similar fashion to the others in the room, dark muted colours and leather breeches, woollen tunic belted in his slim waist, an assortment of little pouches tied to the leather strap. The heavy silver medallion on his chest showed not a wolf head but that of a griffin. 

It was Vesemir who broke the silence, rising from his chair and gesturing towards the fire. 

"Welcome, Coën. We've been expecting you for a while now. Sit with us."

His voice was friendly but a bit more formal than it was around the others, welcoming not a stranger but not a brother either. His invitation started an immediate reshuffling. Pulling his feet from the table Jaskier made sure to note the page he was on with his index finger and closed the book before moving his own chair a little so there was more space. Lambert and Geralt put away the board without bothering to note who would have won and Eskel moved the chairs so they sat in a circle around the little table, one armchair free for their new guest. 

But besides those movements nobody got up to welcome Coën, no embraces were offered. There was something in the air, and he assumed the witchers were sensing it more strongly than he did. 

Settling in the chair he had been appointed to Coën sat down, his hands on the armrests for a moment before he pulled them into his lap, kneading his fingers. He inhaled, opened his mouth to say something, and then looked at Jaskier as if he hadn't noticed his presence before. But he only took inventory looking Jaskier up and down once before turning to Vesemir. 

"Thank you, Vesemir. Apologies for my late arrival, it wasn't possible to travel faster in this weather. You have a guest amongst you?"

His voice was pleasant, pitched a little bit high, making him sound incredibly young compared to Vesemir's rumbling bass. He cleared his throat, looking at Jaskier again with some curiosity, then back at his hands. Jaskier was fascinated to watch him fidget, something he never thought he'd see a witcher do, an almost human display of nervousness that looked strange. The feeling of something being off was only strengthened by the uncertainty in Coën's bloodshot eyes, and sitting close enough to him Jaskier noticed that his face was littered with small scars that didn't come from battle but illness, the beard apparently an attempt to hide them. Pockmarks weren't uncommon for humans, but on a witcher?

Vesemir nodded and wanted to say something, but Lambert cut him off. 

"Never mind the human, you'll get to know him soon enough. It is good to see you, Coën. And now spit it out, where did you leave Milos? Broken up, have you?"

The implications where manifold, and Jaskier was speechless at all of them. But the room didn't break into the raucous laughter such a comment would usually have provoked. Instead the silence grew heavier when Coën seemed to pale, looking down at his hands. Then he took a deep breath and nestled on one of the small leather pouches on his belt. Watching closely Jaskier noted that his hands seemed to be shaking just a little, and he fumbled with the knots for a moment. Finally he had the strings untied, and the pouch opened. 

In a gentle movement he tipped the contents out, leant forward in his chair, and then, as if it could break, let the silver chain glide onto the small table they were sitting around. 

The medallion slid onto the table noiselessly, heavy chain pooling around it. The wolf head glimmered in the flickering light of the fireplace. 

Jaskier immediately understood. He didn't need to look around the room to see the reactions, no need for him to notice how Vesemir's face softened for a moment, how Geralt's shoulders tensed. Lambert's face was empty, his panache and vigour gone. 

For a moment nobody said anything. The silence was complete, and Jaskier could listen to the differences in their breathing, only interrupted by the crackling of the fire. 

Then Lambert exhaled and sank back in his chair, his eyes still fixed to the medallion on the table. 

"Fuck." 

Eskel nodded, sinking back in his chair as well, and next to Jaskier Geralt forcefully relaxed his shoulders, exhaling slowly and controlled. 

It was Vesemir who spoke, himself completely still, voice cool, apparently entirely unaffected. 

"How?"

Coën sat back in his own chair, suddenly slumping slightly. It seemed that it had been the news he was carrying that had burdened him so much, that now it was out he could let go of the tension, the nervousness slowly sliding off him. 

"Bounty hunter."

Eskel hissed through his teeth, the hatred on his face twisting his scar. The unexpected sound made Jaskier's toes curl involuntarily. 

"Rouge one, I guess. Those fuckers."

Lambert growled. "But how could a bounty hunter take down Milos?"

Slumping further Coën kept on looking at the medallion. 

"Apparently he was heavily injured from a contract, recuperating somewhere when the hunter found him. He couldn't have put up much of a fight. The bastard told me he'd simply had to overpower him, tie him up, decapitate him."

The description made Jaskier's stomach clench. Coën's voice was flat, but not quivering, and looking around the room Jaskier noticed that Lambert's fingers were digging into the armrest of the chair he was sitting in. Only Vesemir and Geralt seemed to keep up a certain level of composure, both silent and calm, focused but not projecting any emotions that Jaskier could pick up on. 

"How do you know?"

Vesemir folded his hands over his stomach, keeping his eyes on the room. Coën shrugged. 

"That's what the hunter told me before I took his head off."

Lambert and Eskel seemed to greatly approve of the answer, but it was Geralt who inquired further. 

"Did he give you a name?"

Coën shook his head. "Wasn't asking for one. Tall guy, former sellsword, heavily armed, no hair. Strange black tattoos on his face. I considered taking his head, but what was I going to do with it?"

Geralt frowned, and then cursed. He only elaborated when he realised everyone was looking at him. 

"I met that particular hunter as well. Two years ago, outside Novigrad. He trailed me for a while, and when I finally intercepted him he told me he was hunting for wolves. Apparently he had killed a cat witcher at some point, and now wanted what he called the whole set."

Lambert looked like he was about to murder not only the unnamed hunter but also Geralt. 

"So why the fuck did you not kill him?"

Geralt calmly tilted his head, shrugging. "Because he ran before I could. It was on the open road close to Novigrad, I couldn't track him down and kill him there. People would have noticed. And I'm not an assassin."

Growling Lambert leant forward. 

"Of course you could have killed him, who cares if the people notice you taking someone down? They call you the butcher already, it's not like you have much to lose."

All of his aggression was suddenly focused on Geralt, something so heartbreakingly human in its emotional mechanism that Jaskier felt the pain almost physically. And apparently Geralt very well understood what was happening, too, for he wasn't moved at all by Lambert's anger. 

"At least it seems he never got the set." 

Casting a glance at Coën it was clear what Geralt meant. Lambert opened his mouth to reply, but Vesemir interrupted him.

"How did you find the hunter, Coën?"

Coën had followed the discussion, his attention fixed on Geralt in a mixture of anger and the by now palpable sadness. His eyes went to the medallion again for a moment before he answered. 

"Milos and me had fixed a place and time to meet near Pontar Valley to travel to Kaer Morhen together. I came from the south, working my way up, arriving a few days behind the agreed date. Milos wasn't there, so I laid low, waiting for a while. When he didn't arrive I started to look around a bit, here and there. Then I heard the rumours that a bounty hunter was in the area, looking for more witchers, knowing we'd pass through on our way to Kaedwen. Went looking for him, and quickly found him staked out in a cave."

Needing a moment to let his words sink in he took another deep breath.

"Had the medallion on his neck, the bastard, and bragged how he'd gotten it. It was a pleasure to take his head off, I made him beg for his life for a while."

His voice was grim, but there was a hint of cruelty on his face, twisting his mouth, a snarl that remained. Witchers weren't above revenge, or at least Coën had not been.

And Lambert seemed to approve, his hands curled to fists, teeth gritted. He seemed on the brink of exploding any moment, anger and the pain of the sudden loss entwining in him, creating a dangerous mixture of emotions that threatened to spill in an ugly way. Compared to him the others were perfectly composed, even though Eskel had thunder on his face and in his voice.

"And did he have a cat medallion?"

Coën nodded, patting the second pouch on his belt. "He did. Took it, of course. Maybe I can one day return it to a cat, should I ever meet one."

Snorting Geralt shook his head. 

"You won't have time to get a word out if you ever meet a cat witcher, Coën. Good luck with speaking when your throat's being cut."

It was Vesemir who cut him off, still controlling the conversation. 

"And the swords?"

But all Coën could do was shrug. 

"He didn't have them anymore, apparently took them to a market somewhere with all of Milos' gear. To make up for it I sold his own weapons and his horse before riding here. I'll give you the money later, you can use it however you want."

Vesemir nodded, his eyes on Coën. His gaze only wandered over to Lambert when he cursed again, and then suddenly stood up, chair scraping over the stone floor. It was obvious he needed to get away from the others, to deal with his anger on his own, and he stalked out of the room, the door slamming close behind him with force. Eskel stared after him, and then sighed. 

"We won't ever recover the swords, the market for them is crazy. Trophy hunters all over the place, they'll be on a wall somewhere by now."

Geralt nodded, but Jaskier could tell he wasn't listening. They sat in silence for what seemed like a very long time.

Then Eskel got up, apparently needing to move almost as much as Lambert had done. He left with only a nod of his head towards Vesemir and Geralt, but in passing he placed a hand on Coën's shoulder, firmly grasping it in what was a too small gesture of comfort that could do nothing against the desperation visibly bending Coën down. 

With the door closing softly behind Eskel Jaskier suddenly realised that maybe he should go as well. But nobody told him to leave, his presence forgotten. And if he was honest with himself he wasn't keen on moving, not wanting to draw attention to himself and also not particularly enamoured with the idea of accidentally running into Lambert somewhere in Kaer Morhen. It wasn't that Jaskier was particularly afraid for his own safety, but somehow it seemed a good idea to stick with Geralt and Vesemir for the moment.

It was Coën who finally spoke again. He had drawn himself up a bit, looking at Vesemir. 

"If you wish me to leave Kaer Morhen I'm prepared to ride tomorrow morning. I have appreciated your hospitality all those years, but with Milos gone - " 

Vesemir interrupted him with a curt movement of his hand. 

"You are just as welcome here as you always were. With Kaer Seren destroyed there is no reason why Kaer Morhen should not continue to be your home for as long as you wish. We have always helped our brothers here, and we will continue to do so as long as we can."

Coën tilted his head in acceptance of the offer, and for a moment Jaskier thought that he wasn't speaking because his voice would break had he just tried. 

There was more silence, and then Vesemir stood up as well. 

"Sit by the fire for a moment longer, if you wish. I will see you on the morrow."

With a last glance at the medallion on the table he walked off, light steps vanishing silently. Jaskier had the sneaking suspicion that he was leaving in search of Lambert, but he wasn't sure. Vesemir's disappearance left him with just Geralt and Coën, and quite a few empty chairs. 

"We haven't even offered you a drink."

Geralt motioned for Coën to move closer to the fire and stood up to collect a goblet for him. Without questioning the offer Coën stood up, took the armchair where Vesemir had sat previously, closest to the fire, now opposite of Jaskier. He accepted the empty goblet and Geralt placed the bottle of White Gull on the little table between them, next to the medallion. He didn't offer Jaskier anything, simply filling his own goblet and a new one for Coën. Then he settled, moving his own chair a bit closer so the three of them now sat in a small circle close to the fire, their backs to the shadows of the room. 

Coën picked up his goblet, and clinked it against Geralt's. 

"Let's drink to Milos, then."

Nodding Coën tipped the entire contents of the goblet back, and Geralt followed his example before refilling both goblets immediately.

"You've been travelling with Milos for many years."

It was half a question and half a statement, and Jaskier watched Geralt look at Coën while replacing the bottle on the table, picking up his own goblet and leaning back. Coën only nodded. He kept his eyes lowered and when he glanced up Jaskier noticed that he wasn't looking at Geralt's face but at the medallion halfway hidden in the folds of his black shirt, softly glimmering in the light of the fireplace, moving slightly with every breath he took. 

"Ten this summer. Not really travelling, you know how it is, our kind can't travel together. Meeting here and there, wintering together."

Coën faltered, taking a sip from this goblet to divert from the fact that he needed a moment to find control again. The difference between Geralt's calm demeanour and Coën's emotional upheaval was immense, especially for a breed of creatures that weren't supposed to feel any emotions at all, a theory that Coën's visible emotional pain put to sad shame. 

Because Jaskier knew what a broken heart looked like, and Coën was a prime example of someone who had lost and was grieving, just like any human would after losing a lover. And Jaskier was convinced that they had been lovers, even thought nobody had really said it out loud. But it was obvious that travelling-with-someone was shorthand for just that, something that made Jaskier briefly wonder what everybody at Kaer Morhen thought he was exactly doing with Geralt while on the road. 

"Did you know Eskel spent a few weeks this summer with Milos by the coast?"

Geralt's voice was gentle, pulling Jaskier from his thoughts. Coën shook his head, and Geralt only hummed a response in reply. Putting his empty goblet back on the little table he picked up the medallion. For a moment he looked at it, turning the medallion around and examining it from all sides, as if it weren't a perfect counterpart to the one around his own neck but a foreign object worthy of intense study. Finally he looked up, caught Coën's eyes and held the medallion out for him to take.

"Here."

But Coën shook his head. 

"It's not mine to wear."

Absently minded he touched the griffin head sitting on his own chest. But Geralt didn't move. 

"You have worn it until your arrival in Kaer Morhen, it still carries your body heat."

For a second Coën's eyes widened, and Jaskier thought there was a mixture of guilt and surprise at having been found out by such a miniscule detail in his gaze. 

"Only to bring it here."

Tilting his head Geralt looked at him, indicating that he was very well aware that Coën was not telling the truth. 

"Take it, wear it as long as you need to. If one day you decide that you would like to be free of it give it back to one of us, if we're still here. If not, bury it somewhere."

Coën sat in silence for a moment, and then finally reached out to take the medallion back. Geralt dropped it into his open palm, watching him gently brush a thumb over the wolf head before reaching out and sliding the chain around his own neck. It dangled next to the griffin head for a moment before he took it and slipped it into his tunic where it remained hidden from view on his skin. 

"So how long did the hunter beg for his life exactly?"

Geralt posed the question without any ostensible agenda to it, nothing but bare curiosity. Coën's face hardened.

"Days."

Nodding Geralt looked at the fire for a moment. 

"Cruelty does not serve any of us well, Coën."

Baring his teeth Coën hissed, displaying sharp canines for a short moment. 

"So speaks the Butcher of Blaviken, who needed a bard to save his reputation. Listen to yourself, what do you know about these things, old as you are?"

Coën looked at Jaskier, who only in that moment realised that he hadn't questioned why a human was in Kaer Morhen because he perfectly well knew the reason. But Geralt didn't react immediately. Slowly tilting his head, as if he were listening to something in the distance he waited for a moment with his reply. Then he looked at Jaskier, just a brief glance, just enough for Jaskier to notice how warm his amber eyes were compared to Coën's cold green gaze.

"Coën and me need to talk, Jaskier. I will see you tomorrow."

There was something authoritative in his voice, and Jaskier made haste to follow the order. He was a bit sorry for himself for being kicked out now that apparently the real talk was supposed to happen, but he understood that there were things they just didn't want him to know.

Picking the volume of poetry up from his lap he accidentally let go of the proper page, cursed inwardly but decided not to voice his anger. Heading out of the library he glanced over his shoulder while opening the door and slipping out of the room, watching Coën stare at Geralt in a mixture of anger and admiration that Jaskier didn't really understand. 

Lost in thought he walked back up to his room, only to bump into Eskel on the stairs. He carried a small barrel under his arms and seemed slightly unsteady on his feet.

"Songbird! Is our lark off to bed?"

He stopped, leaning against the stone wall, grinning at Jaskier. That alone was a dead give-away, but he was also slurring his words quite badly and Jaskier was surprised to find that he had apparently found enough time between leaving the library and now marching towards the kitchen to get utterly and helplessly drunk.

"It's Witchers-Only in the library, so I thought I'd take myself to my room."

Eskel looked terrified for a moment. 

"Gods above, did Geralt declare he'd have to talk to Coën?"

Jaskier nodded, and Eskel reached out to clasp a firm hand on his shoulder. 

"Make sure that never happens to you, it's dreadful." Leaning in a bit closer he examined Jaskier's face. "You don't look tired. Listen to me, sweet songbird, I'm on my way to the kitchen. Come, sit with me, have some of our good ale and we will talk without any wise blabbering."

It wasn't quite clear if Jaskier had the option to say no, because Eskel immediately turned him around, slung an arm around his shoulders and practically manhandled him down the stairs in the direction of the kitchen. They stumbled out of the archway without delay, finding the fire in the kitchen almost dying but still giving off warmth. 

"You the fire, me the alcohol. Food?"

Not being one to turn down a nibble with some ale Jaskier nodded, placing his book on a secure spot on the table and setting about to rekindle the fire. In the meantime Eskel dropped the little barrel on the counter and swayed towards the pantry. He returned after some rummaging minutes later, placed a basket filled with various nibbles on the table and left again. Jaskier went hunting for tankards and plates, found everything and set the table. It took a while and some banging in the background, and then Eskel returned dragging an entire barrel of ale with him that would have kept three grown men busy with its weight and briefly made Jaskier worry for his liver. 

They were seated at the table shortly after, a candle and the fireplace lightning the kitchen nicely, between them a spread of cheese and some fruit, cured meats and bread. Their two tankards were filled with frothy ale, and Eskel looked earnestly at Jaskier before smashing them together with a hearty shove. 

The ale was excellent, and Jaskier set about to pick at the offerings with more joy than he should have felt after their rather large dinner. Eskel was helping himself without any shame, apparently always hungry. But then keeping a witcher's body up and running took a lot of food, as Jaskier was well aware of having spent multiple years watching Geralt eat in abundance whenever possible without having a single hint of fat on his body. 

"So, listen, was it bad up there? I couldn't stay, you know, I had to have a think."

Tearing a piece of bread off Jaskier nodded. 

"Well, dreadful situation. I'm sorry for your loss, really."

Eskel emptied half of his tankard in one fell swoop and banged it down again. 

"Fucking bounty hunters, I tell you. We spent all our lives thinking about what bloody teeth will tear us apart and then it's a shitty human that goes and takes our head off. No offence, Bard."

Jaskier shrugged, having no good feelings about bounty hunters in general and fully understanding that the situation required a bit more openness than usual. Cutting a piece of cheese off he sniffed at it before taking a bite. Eskel used the little pause to continue the conversation. 

"Listen, songbird, I'm a bit sorry for today. Didn't want to push you, right, you keep your little secrets."

Accepting the apology with a tilt of his head Jaskier chased the cheese down with a good sip of ale before answering. 

"All good, I understand. I don't really expect any of you to be, you know, experts on feelings."

Eskel snorted, took a piece of cured ham and bit into it, speaking with his mouth full.

"Are you fucking with me? Did that - " he gestured with his head to the floor above, roughly into the direction of the library, " -and that - " slapping a hand at his own chest - "look like no feelings to you?"

Putting his tankard down Jaskier felt a little put on the spot. 

"Well, you know what they say about witchers having no emotions."

He didn't add that Geralt tended to insist on that it was absolutely true, that Jaskier had watched him swear up and down that he was basically numb when it came to feelings, having no grasp even of the general concept of it. Obviously what he had just witnessed in the library proved that he was maybe lying either to Jaskier or himself or both of them at the same time.

"It's just a pile of shite, trust me on that. I'll tell you about feelings, Bard. You just saw Coën, and tell you what, he's been with Milos for a decade, maybe more."

Picking up his tankard he emptied it, wiped foam off his face and got up to stagger over to the barrel, taking Jaskier's tankard with him without asking. Returning he sat down heavily, slapped both tankards down with much force and leant forward. 

"Death, right, sucks. We think about death all the time, we're prepared for the moment, and so on. Sure as hell, if it's your own fucking head on the line you don't care as much, there's the monster, you finish it or it finishes you, either way it's what you have to do. But the other side of the coin is worse, if it's not you who dies but your brother or your lover or whatever. We ride alone, fight alone and die alone, fine with me, but we've lived together for so many years. Nobody cares if another witcher is gone, but we notice. We should be used to death, but nobody ever is."

He leant in, closer to Jaskier. 

"Tell you a secret, Bard. Every year I come to Kaer Morhen for winter and I brace myself thinking that this year someone will tell me Geralt's not coming home, has been eaten by something or killed or whatever. Every year I do it, because one year it'll be true. That's the thing with death, nobody can outrun her."

Lifting his tankard he drank, setting it down halfway empty again. Jaskier made haste to follow his example, but took only a small sip. Eskel behaved like most very intoxicated men tended to, but if they continued their drinking and talking at that rate one or both of them would be under the table crying in approximately half an hour, and Jaskier wasn't sure he actually wanted to go there. 

Eskel leant back again, picked up a piece of bread and started to chew. 

"And you tell me I have no emotions?"

Shrugging Jaskier put his tankard down.

"No, of course not. But where does the rumour come from?"

Pulling the bread apart Eskel focused on his hands. 

"Old story. There's been witchers around for a long time, right up from when you humans decided you needed someone to deal with the mess the conjunction of the spheres had left. But in the beginning the process of making a witcher was imprecise, creating very different beings from what we are today." He tapped his own chest, something he apparently was wont to do when he was drunk. 

"And they actually had no emotions?"

Picking up the knife and slicing the cheese apart Eskel wrapped what was left of his bread around a particularly large piece and looked at it with surprising fondness. 

"I guess. Vesemir was still part of that generation, and I don't think he has anything like emotions, or at least not many of them. Not like I do."

Turning his attention towards the ham Jaskier took the knife from Eskel and cut a few pieces off the meat. For a moment he wondered whether it was morally problematic to take advantage of the fact that Eskel was properly intoxicated while Jaskier was feeling nothing but a slight buzz, and decided that he had to take whatever he got. 

"So what do you feel?"

Chewing on the cheese for a moment Eskel emptied his tankard again, and repeated the process of refilling it with ale. Sitting down again he propped his elbow up on the table and placed his chin on top of his hands. 

"Well, the usual. Some things not, of course, like fear or panic, can't have that in a witcher, bad for the job. But otherwise it's almost like you, just more muted. We have more control, right, can decide whether I want to feel something or push it away and maybe deal with it later."

Listening attentively Jaskier carefully placed his next question. 

"And do you mostly decide to feel things?"

Eskel shrugged. "Most of the times. What's the point in pretending I don't?"

Picking up his tankard again Jaskier looked at Eskel over the rim of it. "Go ask Geralt, I'd say." Then he drank, giving Eskel a moment to find an answer. When he put the tankard down again he found Eskel looking at him for a moment with the same unnerving intensity he was used to from Geralt by now. 

"Do you think he's only pretending?"

Surprised Jaskier stared back. 

"But you just told me you do feel things."

Eskel tilted his head slightly, in a gesture that was very familiar and felt strange on him. 

"I do, but does he? A few things for sure, but with everything else I guess only he knows."

It didn't make much sense, especially compared to what Eskel had just explained. 

"But aren't you very similar? You even have some of the same mannerisms."

With a gesture as if he was swiping Jaskier's argument aside Eskel set into a longer explanation. 

"You have no idea how close you are to your brothers growing up in Kaer Morhen. You sleep together, eat together, train together, and then - " He stopped, apparently wondering if he wanted to continue and decided against it. "Anyway, it's like being in a pack. Wolves, right. We can barely live without each other."

For a moment Jaskier wondered if he could ever believe that witchers were social creatures, not when in human eyes they were the epitome of the solitary fighter and had been for centuries. But if they really were sociable like this, wasn't it cruel to keep someone around others for years and years to force him onto the path all on his own, condemned to eternal loneliness?

"But then the trials happened, and you know with Geralt - ah, no, you don't know, forget about it."

Groaning Jaskier threw up his hands. He had been so close!

"Damn it, what's up with that bloody secret? Just tell me, it can't be that bad."

But Eskel shook his head, loyal even in complete and utter drunkenness. 

"Can't, won't, you don't need to ask me. Anyway, take it from me that Geralt is a little bit different, so lots of general witcher things may not apply. More ale?"

He got up, very obviously to distract from the situation, and Jaskier could only curse inwardly and stare at the table. Then Eskel was back, set down the tankards, and started to pick at the food again. 

"Right, let's talk about something else."

Jaskier ceded that he'd have to settle for that now and went for a different question.

"Then tell me what's the deal with Lambert."

Nodding Eskel started to pick more bread apart. 

"Specifically right now or in general? He's not as grumpy as he seems, trust me. Well, right now he's dealing with a lot, you know, Milos and him, grew up together, though Milos was younger. Sweet boy, prettiest witcher I've ever seen, you'd have been head over heels for him considering witchers seem to be, you know, your thing."

Nearly choking on his ale Jaskier had to set his tankard down and cough for a solid minute. Eskel reached over the table and made motions to bang on Jaskier's back, something only a hastily lifted arm could avoid. Drunk as he was Jaskier feared Eskel would simply ram him into the ground, and he wasn't keen on having his shoulder broken, especially given the fact that he'd probably have a solid set of bruises already just from the way Eskel had dragged him down the stairs. 

"Trust me, Milos was something else. Blonde curls! Have you ever seen a witcher with blonde curls? Looked like a girl when he showed up here, big blue eyes and everything. They teased him so much, and then he broke their noses and it was all settled. It's a fucking shame."

He started to roll the soft inner parts of the bread between his fingers, staring at them to avoid looking at Jaskier. 

"So Milos and Lambert are younger than you? Coën just told Geralt that he was old."

Eskel snorted, but even that sounded sad. 

"Geralt will kick his arse for that sometime soon, just you wait. Coën is the youngest witcher I've ever met, the School of the Griffin was up and running for longer than we wolves were here. Actually Milos and Lambert were the last ones to go through the trials before the siege, so while Milos was older than Coën he and Lambert were youngsters compared to Geralt and me."

Emptying his own tankard Jaskier pushed himself up from the bench to get ale for both of them. 

"So how old are you?"

He came back just in time to watch Eskel shrug and once again prop up his elbows to lean his apparently heavy head on top of his hands.

"Couple of decades, maybe a century. We don't actually know the precise number, so I can't tell you."

Surprised Jaskier sat down again. "You don't know how old you are?"

"Vesemir bought me for a few coins from my family, didn't ask for my age. He found Geralt on some random path somewhere, and he didn't have a sign with his age around his neck. Didn't have a name either, Vesemir saw to that."

Well, that maybe explained a lot. 

"I thought the law of surprise was how little boys came to Kaer Morhen."

Shaking his head Eskel dropped his elbows again.

"Some do, not everyone. Milos was a child surprise, I think. Lambert was very little when he came here, bit of a special case." Seeing Jaskier lift an eyebrow in curiosity he obliged. 

"Sad story, kind of. You remember the plague?" Considering that having-read-about-it-in-a-book probably counted Jaskier nodded and Eskel continued. "You humans had it bad. Anyway, Vesemir was still travelling at that stage, and he came through a village where everybody and their cat had died. Corpses, horrific smell, disgusting. So he rides through, looking for necrophages, right, because those are everywhere when there's plague or battle, lots of work for our kind. He's on his horse, nearly bending over with the desire to vomit, corpse smell is disgusting - " 

He pulled a face to make his point very clear, and Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Anyway, so, it's very silent, no sound, everybody dead, and then there's the cry of a child. And stupid Vesemir, gets off his horse and goes looking, sword in hand because you know, there's all sorts of things mimicking a crying child to lure you in, sneaky bastards. Turns out it is a child, little boy crying next to his rotting corpse family, and Vesemir with his soft heart takes him in, and that's how we got Lambert."

He lifted his tankard and toasted to nobody in particular, downing the entire contents. Pushing himself up with effort he went to get himself and Jaskier another tankard, and sitting down again he regaled Jaskier with little stories about Lambert growing up in Kaer Morhen, wrecking havoc wherever he went. 

Waiting until Eskel was done with a particularly amusing story that involved Lambert and an instable tree Jaskier slid a question into the whole storytelling avalanche he had been curious to ask since his first evening in Kaer Morhen. 

"So what's the thing between Geralt and Lambert?"

Eating the last piece of bread Eskel chewed on it a moment longer, thinking it through. 

"Difficult to explain. See, Lambert was never sure if he wanted to be a witcher or not. And it's not like they ask you - well, technically they ask you just before the trials, but really, where would you go then - "

Jaskier interrupted him quickly. 

"What do you mean, they ask you? You do have a choice?"

But Eskel shook his head. "Nah, it's more of a rhetorical question. And it's not like they look at you with generous love and tell you that you can have a horse and some coin to get away if you'd prefer not to have your body ripped apart and fucked over with while you're enjoying the ride being fully conscious - " He needed to stop and breathe, suddenly realising he was going of on a tangent and to Jaskier's regret stopped himself. "- anyway, Lambert wasn't sure anymore, and afterwards had to come to terms with the fact that he was a witcher now, and not in the way Geralt is. So it's part jealousy and part anger at his own place in life."

Growling Jaskier frowned. 

"And let me guess, you won't explain to me what exactly he would be jealous of because we have arrived at the deep and dark secret again?"

Eskel nodded, emptying his tankard in an impressive gulp and Jaskier only groaned and actually dropped his head onto his arms on the table, in a move so dramatic that Eskel got up to get him another tankard of ale to make up for it. And another one, and then one more after that. Outside the rain and sleet continued to fall, hammering against the windows, a thick veil of wet darkness surrounding the fortress and the mountains towering above.

The hangover the next morning was spectacular, and Jaskier turned around in his bed at least three times before being able to even open his eyes. His head hated him as soon as he moved, so he stayed put for the moment, mercifully falling asleep again. He repeated the process until the sun was too obviously high enough for it to be still morning, and he forced himself upright. 

Stumbling down the stairs he prayed to whatever gods were listening that the kitchen would be empty. He wasn't sure if he could survive chatter like this, any word somebody might say probably capable of destroying his head for good. He'd need to go more easy on the alcohol, especially when surrounded by people with a physiology that allowed them to drink a lot more than Jaskier's sad human condition made up for. 

And the gods were looking on him with favour in their kind eyes, for the kitchen was deserted, no trace of the shenanigans of their previous evening left. This time there was no pot with kasha, but by now Jaskier had figured out how the pantry behind the kitchen was organised and helped himself to bread, forgoing the cheese for the moment to spare his already upset stomach. Settling on the bench he kept his head very still and continued to send pleas to the heavens above that he would remain on his own for at least another hour. 

But this time it wasn't supposed to be. Barely ten minutes after Jaskier had settled down he heard light steps on the staircase, and Geralt came out of the archway, more spring in his step than Jaskier thought appropriate for the moment. Seeing Jaskier more or less slumped forward on the bench he only lifted an eyebrow and shook his head, vanishing towards the pantry to assemble what probably for him was a light lunch. He returned to the kitchen carrying an assortment of cheeses, cured meats and bread that reminded Jaskier a little bit too much of last night's indulgence, set everything down on the kitchen table and sat down on the bench, right where Eskel had spent most of the previous night. 

There was amusement on his face when Jaskier barely raised his head, only grunting a greeting. Replying with nothing but a hum and a nod Geralt focused on his lunch, polishing off an astonishing amount of cheese and bread without caring for the lack of conversation. It was only when everything on the table was gone and even Jaskier had managed to eat the entire piece of bread he had picked for his morning meal that Geralt decided to initiate some sort of a conversation. 

"Apparently you are at least suffering appropriately for whatever you did with Eskel last night."

Grunting Jaskier nodded, slowly as not to anger his head more than necessary. 

"Guess he told you all about it."

Geralt leant back, crossing his arms.

"Indeed, at approximately four in the morning after he had helped you back to your rooms. What were you even talking about?"

Frowning in confusion Jaskier looked at him. 

"Nothing in particular. Wait, why do you think I did anything to him?"

Looking Jaskier up and down Geralt raised an eyebrow, looking slightly exasperated.

"Because he almost knocked down my door, proceeded to proclaim his undying brotherly love for me and then resorted to hogging most of my bed for what was left of the night. In case you haven't noticed, Eskel gets very emotional when drunk."

Oh, Jaskier had noticed. His fogged brain replayed some parts of their conversation, especially the parts where Eskel had admitted to being afraid of hearing of Geralt's death every year upon his return to Kaer Morhen. It was very easy to deduce from there why he had felt the need to annoy Geralt for the night. Briefly Jaskier considered informing Geralt of the fact, but decided that he was probably already very well aware of the mechanisms of Eskel's undeniable affection for him. It must have been a wonderful situation, and for a moment Jaskier was sad not to have been around to watch Geralt wrestle Eskel off him and, probably, absolutely failing. 

"You had it coming, if I might say so."

For a moment Geralt simply watched him without saying a word. Then he got up and started to tidy the remains of his lunch away. Jaskier remained where he was, keeping his head very still, waiting for his stomach to accept the bread as nourishment. Geralt moved around the kitchen behind him, soft steps and purposeful movements, until he was done and ready to set out again. But before he left he stopped at the table once more, looking down at Jaskier.

"Lie down again, you look awful. I'll go back to fixing the roof and then will use this afternoon to go on a rather specific hunt. You might enjoy the scenery, so if you want to join me find me on the roof and let me know."

He was gone before Jaskier could form a reply. So he simply took the good advice and left the kitchen after cleaning up after himself following the good example Geralt had set. He spent the next hours idling in bed until his headache subsided enough for him to actually consider taking Geralt up on his offer. 

Dressing more appropriately for an afternoon outside Jaskier left his rooms, strayed around the keep for a while until he met Vesemir in the entrance hall and asked him for directions. Finally he was climbing up the stairs to the highest point of the only tower left in existence, panting well before he had reached the highest level. From there it was a another climb up a wooden ladder, and he finally emerged right under the roof. 

It was a large conical construction, rising steeply until the highest point, the wooden skeleton the tiles were set upon visible on the inside. Halfway up to the highest point a hole was visible, just large enough to fit a person climbing through, and he heard the sound of someone moving around on the outside. The lowest part had one or two small openings that served as windows, and when Jaskier crouched down next to them to look out he realised how high up he was in here. 

Settling down to wait for Geralt to appear he looked over the valley, enjoying the view from his slightly different vantage point. The sky had cleared after yesterday's rain, but there were clouds on the horizon again, threatening more grey days. But there was also a strong wind that could turn any minute, and the sun was up in the sky, weak but still giving at least a little warmth. 

It was a beautiful landscape, rough and dramatic, and not for the first time Jaskier regretted that he wasn't a talented painter. He'd have to use his voice for that, needing a song that would go with these hills and valleys, the harsh coldness and the cool colours - the grey and the white, the blue and dark green. 

He was lost in thought when a little pebble fell to the ground right next to him, making him flinch and hit his head at the pitch of the roof over his head. It did nothing for his already sore brain, and he rubbed his forehead cursing low before turning around. 

There was nobody there. Confused he looked around, and only realised he was supposed to look up when the second pebble hit the ground. High up, right in the opening of the roof crouched Geralt, balancing precariously on the thin edge between inside and outside, holding on to the wooden beams supporting the roof from the inside. He carried a couple of tools used for the repairs of the roof slung around his shoulders, right where usually his sword would be. 

"Did you come up to tell me you wanted to go hunting with me?"

Jaskier nodded, still pressing a hand to his head. 

"Then I'll come down. Wait a moment."

He vanished, and Jaskier could see the sky through the hole, listening to the clattering of Geralt's movements on the tiles of the roof. When he returned he was pulling a large black cover behind him that he secured over the hole as soon as he had climbed inside again. Now he was balancing only on the beams of the inside construction, moving around high up in the air as if he were walking on solid ground. 

It was one of those scenarios where Jaskier wasn't sure whether he should stare in amazement or rather look away to avoid having to watch the inevitable fall. He decided to go with the first option, craning his neck to properly admire the spectacle of Geralt pulling and securing what looked like a thick canvas over the hole. Then he was done, crouching on the thin beam. 

"How are you going to get down?"

Jaskier was genuinely curious. There was a rope tied to the beam that he supposed Geralt had used to transport tools and materials up, but that didn't look like it could support his body weight. For a moment Geralt looked down at him, perched like a gigantic bird or too large cat on a tree, looking very comfortable in his precarious position. 

Then he jumped. Falling freely he spread his arms, landing right next to Jaskier on his feet, absorbing the shock of the impact by going to his knees, both hands on the ground. Without any visible effort he straightened up again, grinning just a little at Jaskier's shocked face. 

"Never mind, just give me a heart attack. That took at least a year of my life, thank you. Couldn't you just warn me you were going to throw yourself down?"

Shrugging Geralt brushed his hair back, taking off the belt with the tools to leave them on the tower where he'd need them again the next day. 

"What did you expect?"

Storing everything neatly he turned, motioned for Jaskier to follow him and quickly was gone down the ladder. Wringing his hands at the empty air and stopping the pointless display of annoyance when his head didn't quite agree with it Jaskier made haste to follow him, grumbling all the way down. 

"What was I expecting, I don't know, a ladder? A rope? How am I supposed to know you like to throw yourself off great heights? I didn't even know you could climb like that."

At least he hadn't known until he had seen Geralt scale the defence wall on their first day in Kaer Morhen, but really, why was he still surprised at any of the impossible things Geralt regularly did without batting an eye?

Continuing his complaining Jaskier followed Geralt all the way down the tower until they arrived in the entrance hall. There Geralt stopped for a moment, so abruptly that Jaskier bumped into his back. 

"Are you done? Good. I want to go hunting for a rather specific animal today, are you dressed for a longer walk?"

Jaskier was, wearing his by now trusted layers, having replaced the cerulean tunic with a more plain dark green version for a change. Geralt, on the other hand, needed to stop quickly by his rooms and Jaskier followed him up the stairs. 

He hadn't seen Geralt's room until now, and was a little disappointed in finding that it didn't differ much from his own. It was shaped a little bit differently, but otherwise had the same impersonal air to it. There was the same fireplace, the same furniture, the same almost empty shelves. The bed was unmade, looking like it had been vacated only very recently. 

The only difference to Jaskier's room was the lack of furs, a wooden chest sitting on the shelves that looked like the ones Jaskier had seen in the storage room the day Vesemir had offered him the clothes, and the considerable collection of neatly placed weapons. Moving around the room quickly Geralt slipped a woollen tunic over his head, picked his steel sword off the shelves and secured it on his back. Within minutes they were out in the corridor again and on their way. Passing through the courtyard they stopped by the stables where Geralt picked up the black knapsack Jaskier hadn't seen since they had arrived in Kaer Morhen and, quite inexplicably, a bucket with a tightly fitting lid. 

"What are you going to hunt with a bucket?"

Jaskier of course knew Geralt could hunt with nothing but a knife or his bare hands, had perhaps expected a bow, maybe a crossbow - but a bucket? 

With a smile tugging at his lips Geralt motioned for Jaskier to move. 

"You'll see."

There was nothing for Jaskier to do but follow him around the keep, through the two courtyards where Eskel lifted a hand in greeting as they passed by the enclosure where he was feeding the chickens. They left the grounds through a large hole in the outer defence wall at the very back of the lowest courtyard after having passed by the meadow. Suddenly they were in the middle of nature again, only a small trail leading around the fortress and upwards towards the mountains. It was so small they had to walk one after the other, Jaskier staying close to Geralt while making sure he wasn't stepping on his heels. 

Winding around the path took them to a flank of the mountain facing away from the fortress, still overlooking the impressive valley Jaskier had admired from the tower minutes ago. Now he was immersed in its sounds and smells, the cool air caressing his hair, smelling of fir trees and the heather growing all around. Quickly the path started to climb up winding around boulders that had come down from the mountains. Soon there were no more trees, and they had barely been walking for an hour when the path suddenly ended in a very narrow gorge. 

It was colder in the gorge, the rock face rising to the left and right, the path barely broad enough for both of them to walk next to each other. And then it suddenly ended, a wall of stone rising before them, impossibly smooth, with nowhere to put their hands and feet. But just above and beyond their reach Jaskier could see the rock face retreating back again, leaving enough space for a ledge broad enough for a path upon it, leading around and probably higher up the mountain. But it was too far up for Jaskier to reach without a ladder or well-placed rope, even if he jumped. 

"Indeed the view is lovely. Thank you for the tour."

Turning around to face Geralt he found him standing turned towards the rock face, reaching up, stretched with one arm above his head and on his toes. He was feeling for something, hand moving around on the stone wall, until he apparently found what he was looking for. Turning back to Jaskier he put the bucket on the ground. 

"So can you climb, a bit?"

Realising the implication Jaskier raised his hands. 

"No, no, that's just not - I'm not a mountain goat, Geralt, I'm a bard!"

Which meant, of course, that two minutes later he found himself hanging on the side of the rock, one hand on the small rockspur Geralt had been looking for, being pushed up until he could scramble to put his feet on another one he had been advised to use for that purpose. With no elegance whatsoever and trembling arms he heaved himself up, reached for another stepping stone and finally flopped onto the ledge. He needed a moment to sooth his ruffled feathers, trying not to look too awkward when seconds later Geralt threw the bucket up for him to catch and followed, pulling himself up without any visible effort.

"Seriously, what's the point in making it that difficult? You could just store a ladder here!"

Geralt shrugged, rising to his feet and offering Jaskier a hand. The ledge was comfortably wide enough to fit both of them, and just as Jaskier had guessed was the starting point of another path leading up and around the mountain behind the fortress. 

"Most humans can't climb here without help, it served as a way to deter anyone fleeing from Kaer Morhen. Made them easier to find."

Setting himself in motion he lead the way, and Jaskier fell into step with him quickly, comfortably. It was nice to just walk with Geralt once more, to be alone with him in nature. 

"Did that happen often, people fleeing from Kaer Morhen?"

He remembered the story Eskel had told, how Lambert had stolen his horse. 

"Back then every couple of years, yes."

Jaskier looked over the edge of the path downwards.

"Why?"

Adjusting the knapsack on his back Geralt shrugged. 

"Growing up in Kaer Morhen wasn't easy. It was always cold here, and witcher training is brutal. Some died in the process, some tried to flee. They never got far, you can't outrun this."

Remembering how Lambert had been found and brought back and apparently whipped dreadfully for his desire to escape Jaskier couldn't help but shiver at the implication. Of course you couldn't outrun a witcher, not in this territory, not when you were a boy with no idea how to navigate and where to go. 

"Lots of whipping, eh?"

He thought of his own youth, where the occasional whip had come his way, but nothing like what seemed to have been normal at Kaer Morhen, nothing that would leave scars on his back.

"Of course, wouldn't work without strict discipline. A whip, a stick, or other more creative means can be used to achieve that."

They turned around the first bend and the path lead away from the edge and started to slope upwards. 

"What are more creative ways?"

Geralt shrugged. 

"There's a little stone plattform built into the outer wall, in the courtyard where the stables are. Sometimes I think I can still see myself kneeling there whenever I pass by, even after all these years."

He didn't sound like he was particularly moved by the memory of his punishments. 

"So you were a troublemaker?“

He couldn't believe it, but then he could barely imagine Geralt as a human. What had he looked like before the trials, before the white hair and amber eyes? Glancing at Geralt from the side he saw a hint of a smile on his face, uncharacteristically mischievous. 

"You were! Tell me all about it."

But Geralt refused to disclose this particular part of his past, no matter how much Jaskier badgered him. They climbed higher and higher, and the path morphed into a narrow trail again before turning another bend and suddenly ending in a little plateau. To their right the view opened onto a fresh angle over the valley, to a side that couldn't be viewed from the fortress as the Gwenllech flowed around a bend. The colours were the same, green and stone grey, white snow caps on top of the Blue Mountains, but the arrangement differed and was most pleasing to the eye. 

Inhaling the fresh air Jaskier realised that he was nicely warmed up from their climb and the effort of having to keep up with Geralt, whom he knew to have already slowed down to a speed more suitable for a human trailing along. 

Geralt stood next to him for a moment, savouring the same view before turning around. Taking off the knapsack he produced a torch very similar to the one Jaskier had last seen on their trek to Kaer Morhen. 

"So are you coming?"

Turning around Jaskier wanted to ask where exactly he planned to go and realised they were standing at the mouth of a cave. Rising behind them was a small opening leading into a tunnel, and there was nothing Jaskier saw inside but total darkness. 

"I assume you know exactly what we are getting into here?"

Not that he'd have hesitated had it been otherwise. He had followed Geralt in more than one terrible situation so far, and he wasn't about to ever stop doing that. 

But he needn't have worried, for Geralt nodded and moved towards the entrance of the cave. 

"Know this one like the back of my hand. I used to come here often, before I set out on the path."

He cast a quick sign and handed the burning torch over to Jaskier, who took it and followed him. In no time the darkness had swallowed them both, Geralt leading the way with confidence and Jaskier following slowly, using the torch to light his way and making sure he wasn't stumbling over any loose rocks strewn on the ground.

"I thought the gorge was prepared so nobody from Kaer Morhen could come up here."

Listening Jaskier heard his voice echoing strangely. The air was getting colder the further they progressed into the mountain, the tunnel leading into the cave growing only very slowly in diameter. Jaskier had to duck to avoid hitting his head on stalactites a few times, always receiving a warning in advance because Geralt was just a little taller and had to crouch down a bit earlier. 

"After I had become a witcher."

Somewhere in the distance water was dripping and Jaskier thought he could even smell it, the taste of the metals washed out of the rocks on his tongue. 

"How long did you stay in the fortress after the trials?"

Geralt ducked his head past a particularly large stalactite. 

"Trials take place in spring. Whoever survived used to remain in Kaer Morhen for another year, and then set out after the following winter."

Arriving at the same stalactite Jaskier followed Geralt's example, touching the stone in passing and finding it wet. There was water on the ground as well now, not much, just enough to make it slightly slippery. 

"To finish training?"

Geralt vanished around a bend in the tunnel for a moment, and Jaskier only heard his steps over the dripping sound of water. The smell grew stronger by the minute. 

"To heal and get used to the changes."

Following Geralt's voice Jaskier rounded the bend, and stood in what was a large cavernous underground hall. From the ceiling stalactites in all shapes and sizes were pointing downwards, their counterparts rising from the ground where it wasn't covered in water, a few large rocks strewn around that had at some point fallen out of the wall. But the water was almost everywhere, for they were standing on the shores of an underground lake that Jaskier suspected was quite large yet shallow. Its bottom was covered in a strange white substance, and Jaskier couldn't determine its entire size for he had only the weak light of his single torch to illuminate it. 

"A lake in a mountain! That's indeed a surprise."

Jaskier's voice echoed in the large space, and he was delighted to hear his words multiply. Without thinking he sang a quick melody, listening to it ebb and wave around the stalactites. Grinning he turned to Geralt, who had moved closer to the shore and was looking into the water at the white substance on the bottom of the lake. 

Drawing close Jaskier followed his gaze, looking down. 

"What is that? Plants?"

The substance seemed strange, thick and shimmering with subtle movement. Geralt shook his head, knelt down to pick up a pebble from the ground and dropped it in the water. The small stone hadn't even reached the ground when the white substance started to move violently, scattering apart on little legs. 

"Crabs! That's what you brought a bucket for."

Jaskier was amazed, having expected everything but surely not crabs living in a mountain in Kaedwen, where even the rivers barely held any fish. 

"How did you find this? What species is that?"

He turned to Geralt to find him already taking off his socks and boots, rolling his breeches up to his knees. Finally he loosened the belt keeping the sword around his back and leant it against one of the stones.

"On accident. I have no idea what crabs these are, but they taste good. That's enough for me."

Without hesitating he stepped into the lake, staying close to the shore, first dipping the bucket into the water to fill it up. The shallow waters barely went above his ankles, and his steps had scattered the crabs further. He placed the bucket down on a conveniently situated flat stone rising out of the water close to the shore, and busied himself with rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and tunic before crouching low, arms dangling over his knees, preparing to wait for the crabs to return so he could pick them out of the water. 

Realising that they would stay here for a while Jaskier dipped a hand into the water, finding it freezing cold and deciding against offering his help in the hunting process. Instead he walked around the shore a bit, taking the torch with him in the knowledge that Geralt didn't need the light. There was complete silence for a while, and when he returned Geralt was still crouching in the cold water, completely unmoving. 

Settling down on a stone close to the water Jaskier kept holding the torch up, looking around. Then he heard the first splash and looked just in time to see Geralt retrieve a handful of the small white crabs from the water, throwing them into the bucket and returning to his state of motionlessness. 

Jaskier had seen him hunt many times before and was very familiar with the inhuman stillness that made witchers excellent predators. But here, crouched in the darkness of the cave with the glittering water that barely moved, illuminated only by the thin light of a single torch he looked downright unfamiliar, eyes barely amber anymore with the pupils blown wide to take in as much light as possible. His white hair seemed to shine strangely, falling over his shoulders, his back rounded from leaning forward in his crouching position. 

So fast Jaskier barely noticed the movement he reached into the water again, bringing more crabs to the surface. They flew into the bucket and Jaskier got up and took a good look at them scattering to the sides of the bucket as fast as they could. Pushing back the sleeves of his jacket and tunic he reached into the water and with some difficulty caught one, its small claws threatening to pinch him. It was really perfectly white, little dark eyes peering back at him. Dropping it back into the water he wondered how an albino animal like this could come into existence here, far away from flowing rivers or shimmering lakes, used to nothing but the pitch black night of the cave and the cold winters of Kaedwen. 

Another splash brought more crabs into the bucket, but they were small and Jaskier realised they would spend quite a while in this cave. 

So he settled down on the stone and decided to go for conversation to pass the time. 

"So do you need perfect silence for this or can I talk?"

Looking over his shoulder Geralt shrugged and turned back. 

"The crabs can't hear you, if that's what you mean."

Pleased with the answer Jaskier crossed his legs and folded his hands on his knees, rubbing them over the leather and briefly wondering whether he should make leather breeches a regular part of his wardrobe.

"Great, because I wanted to ask you something and it seems now would be a good moment."

Mostly because Geralt couldn't run away like this, with wet feet and without boots, and he wasn't likely to take Jaskier down at this very moment as well, not when he was focused on hunting for the fast little crabs. 

He didn't answer, in any case, so Jaskier continued his preamble. 

"Will you answer a question if I ask it?"

Geralt didn't look at him, focused on the water in front of him. 

"Depends on the question."

Nodding Jaskier moved the torch a little bit higher in an attempt to gauge how high the ceiling was, but found that the light barely reached that far. 

"I'll ask and then we'll see."

There was no reply, so he continued, straight to the point, just like a dagger to the heart. 

"What's so special about you that nobody can tell me what it is?"

Geralt, set about to strike into the water stopped in the middle of his movement. But he didn't turn around, simply letting his arm drop again.

"What are you talking about?"

Jaskier shrugged, not minding that Geralt couldn't see him.

"That's what I want to know. Eskel mentioned something, and Vesemir did, too, when he told you to get out of the fortress for the day."

Now Geralt turned around, twisting his torso.

"You eavesdropped." He looked away again. "Of course you did." He sounded resigned, not mad, as if he was chiding himself internally for not being aware of Jaskier's tendencies to get information from wherever it was available in whatever way worked best at that moment. 

"Yes, but I didn't with Eskel, and you can be reassured that he refused to tell me anything. So I'm asking you instead of going around and seeing if I can't find it out myself."

Jaskier felt rightfully like a good friend, because wasn't that what good friends did? But Geralt wasn't convinced. 

"But you are asking."

Rubbing his knees again Jaskier bounced the foot of his crossed leg for a moment. 

"I'm giving you the chance to tell me yourself." He sounded more cheeky than he had intended, and he tried to follow up immediately by another blow. 

Reverse grip, straight between the ribs. 

"Why did Vesemir say you could be dangerous? And what am I supposed to know that I don't know yet and that could disturb me if I find it out?"

It was a harsh blow, but Geralt took it surprisingly well, probably just in the same way he would take an actual dagger plunged into his flesh. For a second he stiffened, and then once more turned around, twisting in his position without rising. Water was dripping from his fingers where his hands were dangling over his knees. He looked at Jaskier for an unnerving moment before speaking, again unfamiliar like a strange alien creature hidden in the semi-darkness.

"And still -" He inhaled once, seeing if he could smell anything. "you're not afraid."

His voice was calm despite the slightly unnerving answer, but Jaskier thought he saw something flit over his face, just for a moment something close to the realisation that he had been betrayed. 

"Should I be?"

They looked at each other for a moment, and to Jaskier's surprise it was Geralt who averted his gaze first, looking down again before he turned away. 

"If you haven't been before there is no reason for it now. Let me finish hunting, and we will talk when the bucket is full and my feet are dry."

Considering this an appropriate answer Jaskier nodded his agreement and regaled Geralt and the crabs with the elven poem he had just learnt to pass the time, his voice rising high above the lake, the echo replying to his music as if it had never done anything else in its entire life but wait for this very moment and the song it had been offered.  



	8. I don't want to sell my life for money / I don't even want to come in out of the rain

It took more than one song until the bucket was full with white crabs climbing over each other in frantic and pointless attempts to escape their fate, their little legs clicking against the shells of their fellow prisoners. Finally Geralt rose from his crouching position while still standing in the water, stretching his sore back and shoulders, groaning while working the stiffness out of his muscles.

Then he waded out of the lake, picked up the bucket and brought it over to the stone Jaskier was still comfortably settled on. Sitting a few feet away where he had deposited his sword and boots he proceeded to roll down his breeches, put on socks and boots and inspected his prey in the bucket. Jaskier let the final note of his current song vibrate a little and then listened for the music to fade away before turning to the bucket as well. 

"A successful hunt! What are you going to do with them when we're back?"

Looking up Geralt shrugged. 

"They'll go into a tub for a while, and then into the pot. They taste good, despite being so small. The water is very clean here."

Nodding Jaskier considered a few recipes for crab meat he had particularly enjoyed and hoped that the crabs would be served when Eskel was on kitchen duty, as it seemed fairly likely that he'd have a couple of tricks up his sleeves when it came to shellfish considering his fondness for food in general. 

"It is, and rich in minerals. Even I can smell it." 

Jaskier sniffed, and suddenly had a realisation. 

"That's how you found the lake, isn't it? You were wandering around the area and smelt the water."

To Jaskier's surprise Geralt only nodded, for once not taken aback at the mentioning of his less than human traits. It was a general development Jaskier had observed ever since he had arrived in Kaer Morhen: that he seemed more comfortable with himself, less pressured maybe to pretend to be something he simply wasn't. It showed in small things, how he easily admitted to scenting people and things, adjusted his eyes without bothering that Jaskier could see his pupils constrict into slits like those of a reptile would. 

Even now he was looking at Jaskier without bothering to change the fact that his eyes were almost black, only the tiniest rim of gold still visible around his pupils. 

"You wanted to talk."

Jaskier nodded, moving a bit on the stone, adjusting his position so that his ankle was placed over his right knee and leaning forward, still balancing the torch as his only source of light. 

"Here?"

Again Geralt shrugged, indicating that he didn't care. And maybe it was a good place to talk, in the semi-darkness and quiet, with only the dripping water and the scuttling crabs for company. So Jaskier repeated his question, once again gently twisting the knife he had already placed on his target. 

"Actually you wanted to talk and I wanted to listen. And you know I'm a good listener, so you better answer properly."

Lifting an eyebrow to indicate he wasn't sure if maybe Jaskier wasn't overestimating his talent as a confessor Geralt sighed. 

"So what exactly do you want to know?"

Now it was Jaskier's turn to roll his eyes. Hadn't he made that very clear already? 

"They treat you as if you are special - Eskel keeps on saying it, Vesemir said you aren't like the others, and I see their glances." He stopped for a moment, sorted his thoughts and continued. "I mean, you are special, to me anyways, but now it seems you're even different from your brothers, and I wonder why."

Geralt looked at a point in the darkness above Jaskier's right shoulder for a moment, apparently carefully considering his answer. It took a while before he found the words he needed, and shrugged before looking at Jaskier again. 

"You need to remember that Eskel is greatly exaggerating and Vesemir has his own reasons for behaving the way he does. There's no secret I can tell you, and I'm afraid you will be rather disappointed."

Leaning forward almost unwillingly, pulled by the invisible strings of his curiosity Jaskier motioned for Geralt to continue and was rewarded with a slight shake of the head. 

"Jaskier, one day your curiosity will get you killed." 

He sounded resigned, knowing fully well that it already had almost gotten Jaskier killed multiple times over the last years and that most of those times it had been Geralt's sword that had prevented the unlucky demise from really happening. 

"Yes, yes, now tell me. What is it with you?"

Geralt rolled his eyes, but obliged. 

"You know how witchers are created?" 

Jaskier hadn't expected to be asked a question in return and was slightly annoyed at the evasive strategy. But he wanted to know, and if Geralt needed to turn a confession into a conversation he could have his way. 

"The trials? You told me they took place in spring, and Eskel had a few not very nice things to say about them. All I know is that it's a process of mutation, fuelled by potions and magic."

Agreeing with Jaskier's explanation Geralt nodded. 

"I can image what Eskel said about them, and I'm tempted to agree." For a moment the unpleasant memory seemed to sidetrack him, but he focused on the task at hand again quickly. 

"Witchers used to be created for a purpose, mutation on that scale doesn't happen for fun. The trials are the process that enables a human to fulfil the duties a witcher has, by enforcing the qualities that are already there, adding a few necessary features and suppressing or erasing those things that are hindering."

He looked at Jaskier as if he wondered whether he was listening properly, and continued when Jaskier nodded his encouragement. 

"The characteristics you want in a witcher tend to be the less human ones, while a few very human traits need to be erased. A human can't fight a monster, and a monster couldn't either because he wouldn't understand the significance of the task. So what you need is something on the threshold between both, that isn't human anymore but not yet fully a monster."

Briefly Jaskier wondered why he hadn't brought a notebook to write down what Geralt was telling him. Like this he only could hang on to every word, trying to remember with precision things he was sure he would hear only once and then never again. On the other hand it seemed obvious that Geralt had thought about how to explain these things, put thought into phrasing them properly so Jaskier would understand. Had he planned to tell Jaskier anyway someday?

"So how does the process work exactly?"

But Geralt shook his head. 

"That's not for today. It has to be enough for you to know that it's a long and complicated process."

Knowing that he'd never get the chance to ask these questions again Jaskier pushed on. 

"Is it painful?"

From what Eskel had said and he had heard he had already gathered that it wasn't quite a nice stroll through the woods. 

"Barely a third of those that attempt the trials survive. It's - " He stopped for a moment, apparently suddenly unsure how to express himself properly. 

"Nothing I've gone through afterwards or before compares, and nothing ever will."

Geralt's voice remained firm, but there was something there that Jaskier could pick up on, a hint of pure emotion that was too strong to be properly hidden. Fear, maybe. Pain. 

For a moment there was silence, Geralt looking at his hands. Then he seemed to give himself a internal push, looking up again. 

"I went through the trials twice."

He said it like a confession, but it didn't make sense to Jaskier. 

"Wait, what? How can someone be mutated twice?"

He looked at Geralt critically, but found of course no physical evidence of anything being off about him, especially not after having spent much of the previous decade looking at Geralt from all angles thoroughly. 

"The trials aren't a fixed process. They were invented a long time ago and fine-tuned over the decades. You can't do that without experimentation, so every decade or so they tried anew to create a new breed of witcher. It was always trial and error, and most of their creations did not survive."

That was a twist Jaskier hadn't suspected, and he felt horror creep up. 

"But you - ?" 

Geralt nodded. 

"Barely, but I did. They tried to create the specific mutations I have three times, but it worked only once. The others died."

Gaping Jaskier stared at him, having expected a lot, but not that. He was fully incapable of saying anything useful for the moment. 

Geralt took the opportunity to shrug, and stand up. 

"Well, I told you it would be disappointing. There's no deep and dark secret, just that detail."

Brushing invisible dirt off his hands he picked the full bucket up, securing the lid on top, suddenly making haste to depart the cave. Jaskier, knowing exactly what he was trying to do almost jumped up from his stone, sending the shadows the torch cast into a nervous dance. 

"Did you just tell me you're a living experiment and now you'll leave me like this?" 

Jaskier barely had time to finish his sentence. Geralt moved so quickly and perfectly noiselessly into his space that he could only yelp in surprise at standing suddenly chest to chest, almost black eyes boring into him. 

"Be careful with your words."

His voice was a low growl, thick with anger, and Jaskier felt his pulse spike suddenly, his heart fluttering in his chest with fear. Of course Geralt felt it, too, suddenly retreating. Jaskier's hand, already reaching out to gently touch him, fell down uselessly. 

"We should go."

Without waiting for Jaskier to follow he turned around, picked up his sword in passing and vanished into the tunnel, leaving Jaskier alone with the lake. For a moment Jaskier needed the space to breathe, calming his heartbeat, thinking. This hadn't quite gone to plan, and he couldn't help but cast a look up at the stalactites hanging from the ceiling in lieu of looking at the sky, sending a quick prayer to the heavens that he'd figure out how to get out of the hole he had dug himself into this time. 

"Sweet Melitele, be with me."

His whisper echoed through the cave and he set out to follow Geralt into the tunnel. He moved slower this time, needing more time to navigate around the bends and dips of the tunnel without being able to follow someone, and when he finally arrived at the mouth of the cave Geralt was standing there, back to him, looking onto the plateau. 

Jaskier stopped close to him and wanted to say something, but Geralt raised a hand and stilled him before any words could leave his mouth. For a second Jaskier had the irrational idea that the low growl he heard came from Geralt, but then his mind helpfully stepped in, telling him that Geralt's voice could sound very growly, but not like this. 

There was something else waiting for them outside the cave, and it was looking forward to meet them. 

Peeking around Geralt Jaskier saw nothing at first. There was only the empty plateau, and the view, the sky having darkened remarkably in the time they had spent in the cave, heavy clouds now hanging low.

But then the growling became louder, closer, and around the bend of the path they had taken up to the cave the warg appeared. Jaskier had never seen one in the flesh, but it wasn't difficult to know what this creature was. It looked as if someone had decided to draw a wolf and add every monster characteristic they could think of. Minus wings, maybe, but otherwise the warg possessed a lot of unnerving qualities Jaskier wasn't keen on meeting head on anytime soon: red eyes, large claws, pointy teeth and apparently a rather unfriendly character. 

It had also been injured recently, and Jaskier didn't need to be told that this was probably a member of the pack Geralt had met on his way to Kaer Morhen and already dispatched most of. 

Geralt's annoyed sigh seemed to agreed with that. Without losing any time he handed Jaskier the knapsack and the bucket, and unsheathed his sword. 

"We need to do something about warg control around the fortress, this is getting ridiculous." 

Looking at Jaskier he frowned. "And why are you not armed? Where's your dagger?"

Shrugging Jaskier cursed under his breath. He knew precisely where the dagger was, and that was safely on the shelf in his room, right where it wouldn't be helpful to him at all. 

"Stay around the bend of the tunnel, so far they probably haven't noticed you're here."

Being slightly unsettled at realising that Geralt had used a plural Jaskier nodded, took everything he had been handed and retreated back into the tunnel. He extinguished the torch just in case, fully realising that he would be at a massive disadvantage in case anything went wrong, with no place to flee to that wouldn't leave him trapped. Casting a last glance at Geralt already focused on the monster, quietly assessing the situation and planning for the fight Jaskier realised that he wasn't even wearing armour. 

Then Geralt flew into motion, out of the tunnel and onto the plateau where the warg was just approaching the entrance, and Jaskier made sure to be hidden nicely behind the bend while still peeking out to see as much of the fight as possible. 

The warg set into a sprint as soon as it realised from where Geralt was attacking, and both were moving towards each other at great speed for a moment. They were already close when the warg took a powerful leap, crossing the final few meters towards what Jaskier supposed looked like a tasty dinner for a warg. The problem was that dinner was equipped with a sharp blade and could move considerably faster than the warg anticipated, and in unexpected ways. 

Instead of fending off the attack like the animal probably expected Geralt dropped to the ground, using his momentum to slide forward so that suddenly the warg's jump carried the beast over him, using his blade to slit open the belly of the beast in one fluid cut. The warg fell to the ground already dying, still catapulted by the original energy of the jump, its intestines spilling on the plateau. Geralt had continued his motion to get away, but still got enough blood over his back, his hair suddenly covered in red spills. 

In an instance he was back on his feet, running towards the bend of the path with blood still dripping off his sword and vanishing from sight. He left Jaskier with the uncomfortable view of the dying warg and the terrible noises the monster made in its painful and brutal demise. 

Not much later a long splatter of blood came from somewhere above, hitting the ground just before the tunnel. Wrinkling his nose Jaskier tried to suss out whether it was warg or witcher blood, and got the answer quickly when Geralt appeared in sight, jumping from somewhere and landing securely on his feet. He was unharmed, but looked annoyed at the sheer amount of blood distributed all over him. Turning around once he stood in silence for a moment, listening, trying to figure out if there were any more wargs in the area. Then he nodded to nobody in particular and called for Jaskier, who promptly emerged from the cave. 

Looking down at the remains of the first warg, now finally properly dead with its red eyes turned heavenwards Jaskier was happy when he arrived next to Geralt and could put the heavy bucket down. He stopped right next to him and stuffed the now cooled torch into the knapsack. 

"I don't think I've ever seen you finish off a monster in that short amount of time. How efficient!"

Geralt, as always completely unmoved, only shrugged. 

"Wargs are amongst the first monsters a new witcher meets in battle, and there's many of them in the area. It gets old quickly."

There was just enough arrogance in his voice to hint towards the fact that he was appalled Jaskier mentioned him slaying something so basal like a warg at all, and Jaskier rolled his eyes. He also noted that it had taken Geralt a mere five minutes to take down what must have been two wargs, and he had come out completely unharmed even though he hadn't even been wearing armour. For a brief moment Jaskier wondered how those claw marks underneath his shirt were doing, and then decided to keep this topic for another day.

"Didn't stop you from getting gore all over you. Your hair's a mess, again. White hair is just not practical on a witcher."

The look on Geralt's face was priceless, a mixture of annoyance and the realisation that he'd never be able to fully understand Jaskier's thought processes. Then he turned around, shaking the blood off his sword with a final sharp movement of the blade.

But he didn't sheathe the sword yet, taking the time to lift the lid of the bucket and using a few handfuls of that water to clean the blood away. Shaking the droplets off he dried the blade using the few parts of his tunic and shirt that were still clean, now soiling the garment completely. Jaskier wrinkled his nose, but said nothing. 

Only when he was happy with the state of his sword Geralt finally returned it to its rightful place on his back. The knapsack went over it, and when he had replaced the lid on the bucket he looked at Jaskier briefly. 

"Unintended side effect of the second mutation, nothing I could do about it."

Then he turned around and led the way down the path towards Kaer Morhen. Jaskier needed a moment to understand what Geralt was talking about, and then made haste to catch up. 

"Seriously, the incredibly special mutation nobody can mention freely changed your hair colour?"

Walking next to Geralt he tried to keep his voice gentle, light-heartened, trying not to provoke another outbreak with any careless words. 

Geralt nodded, looking ahead at the path and not at Jaskier. 

"Amongst other things?"

It was the equivalent of gently poking a sleeping dragon, but Jaskier couldn't help but ask. He was too curious, and something told him that as soon as they would reach Kaer Morhen again Geralt would be a closed up book once more. 

"Amongst other things."

Well, that wasn't a real answer, was it?

Jaskier stopped, and to his surprise Geralt noticed that he was gone from his side and did, too, albeit a few steps further down the path. 

"Listen, I promise I won't write a song about this, but I do need more detail to work with here. Give me something, talk to me."

Geralt just turned away for a moment, looking everywhere but not at Jaskier, before apparently deciding that he couldn't get out of this situation any other way, besides maybe slitting Jaskier's throat. 

"Alright, but walk on. It's a long way down to Kaer Morhen, and I don't know how long the weather will hold."

Nodding his agreement Jaskier set himself into motion, closing up with Geralt again and walking by his side silently, waiting for him to now make the first move. 

It took a few steps before Geralt spoke again.

"The hair was an accident or a shock reaction. The second mutation was very different from the first one." 

He looked at Jaskier from the side, then back at the path and continued. 

"There's physiological changes. I know that I'm stronger and faster, can endure more. My senses are sharper. I admit it does help on the path. There's various monsters I can take down more easily than the others. I heal faster, too."

He kept looking at the path, his voice carefully neutral, but Jaskier, trained to listen for nuances with years and years of practice, heard how difficult it was for him to talk about this at all. 

"You know all of this because you compared yourself to the others?"

Briefly Jaskier wondered whether witchers had competitions about the monsters they had taken down, how long it had taken them and how hard a fight it was. Was there a league of some sorts? Did Vesemir keep notes on their performance? Were there bonus points for elegant sword work? It was such an interesting thought process that he almost overheard Geralt's reply.

"Yes and no. I was a witcher like they are for a few months, and I take my comparison from that time, what they tell me and what I see when we spar."

Jaskier nodded. 

"So how long were you a, well, a normal witcher?"

Geralt didn't even flinch at the implication that he wasn't normal any more. 

"Around six month. I told you the trials take place in spring. The second mutation was in autumn."

He looked at the path, sighing. 

"I'd just gotten used to myself and then they took me apart again."

His voice was dry, but it was a rare insight into his actual thoughts, and Jaskier latched onto it immediately. 

"It must be strange to wake up and be changed."

Geralt hummed a reply, thinking for a moment before answering properly. 

"It's worse to wake up and realise nobody knows what you are anymore."

There was a wry smile on his lips for a moment, but there was absolutely no joy in it. Jaskier, on the other hand, suddenly understood a few things. What Eskel had said about Lambert being jealous made sense now, even though it was obvious that Geralt was anything but proud of what he was. Then Jaskier remembered what Vesemir had said, and followed the thought through to its logical conclusion.

"Is that Vesemir's problem?"

And apparently he was right, for Geralt nodded. 

"Yes. And it is what he thinks you should know, and I've come to the conclusion that he is right." 

There was something new in his voice that sounded slightly alarming to Jaskier. 

"What does that mean, exactly?"

Again Geralt looked at Jaskier from the side, the urgency in his voice becoming more obvious. 

"It means that you were right to call me a living experiment. The second mutations were designed to find out how much humanity could be removed, how far the whole concept of a witcher could be pushed. Not everything they tried worked, I know that. But I also know that it left me less human than for example Eskel is, less than even Vesemir is."

From there it was easy to connect the pieces. 

"He's afraid you might lose control."

Geralt nodded, the wry smile gone.

"And he has valid reasons to think that way."

It twisted something inside Jaskier painfully, the realisation that after all those years they had spent together, all those roads they had travelled down and all the terrifyingly human things he had watched Geralt do there was still room for the implication that he might be nothing but a monster condemned to the eternal struggle of pretending he was still, to whatever degree, human. 

It also seemed that, while Jaskier nurtured an unshakable belief in Geralt's humanity, apparently nobody else did. 

"Bollocks."

It came deep from within Jaskier's heart, and Geralt was so surprised he had to stop on the path. Jaskier had no qualms to elaborate. 

"That's a pile of horseshite, and you know it. I don't care what Vesemir thinks, I will not begin to fear you now, I've known you for too long. You can be mutated thrice and grow pink curls for it, and I wouldn't give a damn. You may not be fully human, but I've known that all along, and I don't care about the specifics. Tell that to Vesemir next time he worries."

Puffing his chest Jaskier strode on, fully aware that he left Geralt standing on the path staring at him with open and honest surprise on his face. But what had he expected? Jaskier had fought more than one bar brawl after someone had slandered Geralt's name and heritage, broken more than one nose and pulled his dagger on nameless bigots countless times. He had defended what he knew to be true - that Geralt had more humanity in him than a lot of those that called themselves human, and unlike them didn't talk about it but acted on it. 

It took Geralt all but five quick steps to catch up with Jaskier again. The surprise from his face was gone, but his voice was strangely soft.

"Have you considered the option that you're wrong?"

Jaskier stopped again, shaking his head violently and wanted to fly into a lengthy monologue why he was one hundred percent certain he wasn't. But Geralt interrupted him, none too gently. 

"But I have, and it has led me to a few conclusions myself."

He hesitated a moment.

"I meant to speak to you today, whether in the cave or later, but we can just as well do it now." 

He looked at Jaskier, again apparently pondering if what he was going to say was a good idea, a look Jaskier already knew and dreaded. 

"When this week is over I want you to leave Kaer Morhen."

There was nothing Jaskier could do but stop abruptly and stare, dumbfounded. 

"What? Why?"

It had been going so well, if he might say so himself. He had never thought Kaer Morhen could become so homely so fast, but between the bathhouse and the kitchen Jaskier had felt comfortable and safe, happy to continue keeping Eskel and the others company, to browse through the library, pick up a few things about sword work. He had been ready to settle in for a few month, to explore and relax. And now nothing of this was going to happen. 

"You know what Vesemir said. If you stay you're my responsibility, and I realised I won't be able to keep you safe. So when the week is over Eskel will accompany you back to the village and set you up somewhere comfortable where you can stay until the snow melts."

In his mind Jaskier heard the wind beat on the wooden roof of the sad inn he had stayed at, the creatures of the forest howling in the distance. It felt almost like a death sentence to be condemned to such a winter now, bleak and lonely month spent in miserable hiding at the wrong end of the world. 

"Why should I not be safe in Kaer Morhen? I don't even understand what you are talking about. Why are you making this sound as if it were for my sake?"

Anger rose in Jaskier, at being thrown out this easily, placed aside without any explanation. Geralt shook his head and set himself into motion again, continuing towards the fortress. The first raindrop fell on the path. 

"You don't have to understand, of course. But I do have your best interests at heart."

Jaskier made haste to follow, anger boiling inside him. 

"No, you don't. You're kicking me out because you're afraid of something you won't even talk about. What did the others say? Did Eskel agree?"

Catching up Jaskier considered reaching out and forcing Geralt to stop, in the last moment realising that it wouldn't have been a good idea and keeping his hands to himself. 

"You will be please to hear that Eskel thinks I lost my mind. Maybe I have. Jaskier, I can't tell you what this is about. Call it intuition, if you like. But trust me when I say you need to leave Kaer Morhen, and soon."

Throwing his hands into the air Jaskier let his frustration spill over, knowing fully well he was projecting every single bit of his emotions straight onto Geralt and probably every tree within a radius of a few kilometres. 

"Intuition? You're kicking me out because you have a bad feeling about it?"

His voice was so strained with anger that it almost broke. Geralt, finally moved by the display of human feelings, stopped and turned towards him, himself not angry yet, but determined, his voice a low hiss. A second raindrop fell on Jaskier's nose.

"Indeed. Didn't I just tell you I was less human than you think?"

He turned around and continued his trek, not waiting to see if Jaskier was following him. It left Jaskier on the path alone for a moment, trying desperately to understand what had just happened, to realise why this was hurting so much. He hadn't seen it coming, hadn't been able to prepare for the twist of this particular dagger in his chest. 

"Aren't you always pretending to have no feelings?"

He yelled after Geralt without any hope he would hear him, feeling slightly childish at the same time. For a moment he considered his options, and realised that he had none. It didn't help that the floodgates above him opened in just that minute, rain starting to fall as a thick curtain, the ice cold water soaking Jaskier's clothes within minutes. He had rarely ever felt so desolate than in this moment, with no options and nothing to negotiate in his hands. 

He only decided to move when the rain started to turn into sleet and the cold became unbearable. He simply followed the path, his head hanging low, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather breeches in a pointless attempt to keep his fingers from freezing off. It didn't help, soaked as he was. 

Geralt was waiting on the path at the climb down into the gorge. There was no hangover rock for him to hide under, so he was just as soaked as Jaskier, clothes heavy with water. The rain had done him some good as it had washed a bit of the gore from the warg fight out of his hair, but otherwise he looked very much like a drowned albino rat, to Jaskier's slightly malicious delight. 

He would have ignored Geralt completely if he hadn't needed his help down into the gorge. But even like this Jaskier didn't say a word to him, ignoring the glances Geralt shot him, especially after he had been halfway lifted down again and the looks he got started to be worried. They continued their walk in total and uncomfortable silence, Jaskier feeling miserable now in a mixture of emotional hurt and intense physical discomfort.

By the time they reached the fortress darkness was falling and Jaskier was trembling. The first thick, wet snowflakes had accumulated on his head, just like they were sticking to Geralt's dirty hair, and Jaskier's hands were starting to turn blue and numb. He stumbled into the warmth of the kitchen barely feeling his feet anymore, and marched straight to the fireplace. Holding his hands towards the flames for a moment he felt them thawing painfully, the returning blood bringing a stinging sensation with it. 

He was watched with interest by the current occupants of the kitchen. Eskel was standing behind the pots, Lambert and Coën had taken up the long kitchen table with their weapons and pieces of horse tack strewn all over it. Lambert was working on what looked like a bridle, stitching two pieces of leather together, while Coën was tending to his silver sword. Their conversation stopped as soon as Jaskier entered, with Geralt following him at a slight distance.

The bucket immediately gained most of the attention, leading Eskel to loudly approve of its contents. Nobody noticed Jaskier's face, and he stayed at the fire for just a few minutes before turning and without a greeting marched out of the kitchen. He knew it was rather childish, especially since Eskel had apparently been on his side all along, but for the moment he couldn't trust his voice not to betray him and decided on rather keeping silent and sorting himself out on his own before he would encounter anyone else. 

Jaskier was barely up the first three steps when he listened to Eskel click his tongue and address Geralt.

"See you told him. You're an arsehole, did you know that?"

He didn't catch Geralt's reply, but the satisfaction at hearing Eskel state exactly what he felt made up for it. 

Returning to his room he found the fire almost dead, spent a few minutes kindling it with trembling hands and then undressed as quickly as possible. Sitting in fresh and dry undergarments in front of the fire it took a while for a proper blaze to set on, but when it did the warmth was beautiful. 

It did nothing to soothe the trembling, however, and Jaskier quickly decided to deal with that in the good old fashioned way. Slipping into his bed he draped his furs over himself, in passing thought of the sad fact that he hadn't had any lunch today. But he felt no need to sit down to dinner with an entire table of witchers looking at him with curiosity, and promptly fell asleep. 

He thought he heard someone knock on his door a few hours later, but it didn't fully reach him in his sleep. Instead of answering he slept through the night, and awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and a sore throat. On testing it out he realised that his voice was barely there anymore, every sound making his throat hurt more. 

Feeling weak and miserable he peeled himself out of bed, dressed with shaking hands and stumbled down towards the warmth of the kitchen. Outside it was still raining heavily, as it had apparently for the entire night, sleet mixing in with water. 

Eskel was in the kitchen, rolling dough on the counter, white flour all over his hands and clothes. He took one look at Jaskier, tried to force-feed him a bowl of kasha without much success and sent him back to bed. Following what was halfway good advice and halfway an order Jaskier complied, feeling absolutely unable to put up even the shadow of a fight. Returning to his room he slipped out of his clothing again and into his bed where the blankets and furs were still warm. Stretching out he noticed how much his body hurt, and how cold his hands were in comparison to his head. Closing his eyes he placed his heavy head on the pillow, and glided into uneasy sleep. 

He kept slipping in and out of this heavy sleep for the next days, the fever raging through his body, shaking his limbs with shivers and cold trembling. Heat spells made way to the feeling of slowly freezing to death, his teeth chattering while his blankets were soaked in sweat. Every time he woke his head was pounding, throat hurting with every intake of breath. There was hardly a comfortable position to find in the bed, no matter how he tossed and turned. 

It was a miserable ordeal, but it would have been worse had it not turned out that his hosts possessed unexpected bedside manners, especially for a breed of creatures that didn't get sick themselves. Jaskier awoke to cold compresses being gently placed on his forehead, the room kept dark and warm, the fire constantly burning to keep the temperature as comfortable for him as possible. 

He had no appetite whatsoever and was rarely awake, but whenever he opened his eyes it seemed that there was a cup of something warm sitting on his bedside table. There were infusions with sage for the throat, ginger sweetened with a little honey against the inflammation, peppermint to sooth his upset stomach, lavender and hop to calm his nerves. Every now and then Jaskier awoke to a worried face offering bowls of broth, forcing spoonfuls of chicken soup or vegetable stew down Jaskier's throat before allowing him to sleep again. 

With the fever raging within his body he barely registered who was aiding him, whether it was Eskel fluffing up his pillow or Geralt taking half-empty cups from his trembling hands. Once or twice he realised that Vesemir was sitting in the armchair next to the fire, leant back with his hands across his stomach, apparently asleep and probably carefully registering every move. 

Every time he awoke it felt as if he had to fight for consciousness to return to him. It was as if the sickness was pulling him under water like a beast with tentacles, a fight he could not win. Noises and voices seemed to come from far away, through thick fog, gentle touches barely registering with him, cool hands on his forehead taking his temperature. He never knew whether he awoke to daylight or night-time, sometimes being able to deduce from the way whoever was with him behaved - Eskel sleeping in the armchair with his head uncomfortably drooping to the side, Geralt fully awake mending a tunic with precise stitches - but even these things were not reliable. 

And then he came to consciousness and was alone. He was still feeling terrible, his clothes clinging to his body soaked with sweat, stomach uneasy. But he was thirsty, and sitting up carefully with arms that could barely support his body weight - how was it possible that he was so heavy suddenly, after not having eaten much for what must have been days - he reached for the cup sitting on his nightstand. The fire hadn't been cared for since at least a few hours and the room was rather dark, leading Jaskier clouded mind to believe it was night outside. 

Sipping the sage tea he tried to breathe, feeling the warm liquid soothe his throat. How could a sore throat be so persistent? He was rarely sick, hardened by years of travel, but whatever he had caught there was truly evil. Replacing the empty cup on the little table he tried to sit up a bit further, rubbing his forehead to soothe his aching head. Carefully trying to breathe without upsetting his throat he brushed unsteady fingers through his hair, finding it matted with dried sweat. As soon as he was well again he'd need a long soak in that wonderful bathhouse - if they would let him stay that long, that was. The onset of desperation hit him hard again, but he pushed it away. There was nothing he could do about it now anyway. He tried to focus on his breathing, feeling the calming intake of air. 

The coldness hit him out of nowhere, the dizziness increasing. He sank back in his bed, staring at the ceiling in an attempt to find something there that could sooth his mind. 

And then there was the darkness again. It was exactly the same as it had been on his first night in Kaer Morhen, thick and viscous, almost of a liquid quality. He knew that the fire was on, technically at least, but he couldn't see it anymore. His stomach rebelled at the pure fear he suddenly felt, and he all he could do was to try and keep himself from vomiting. 

Confused he grasped for the blankets, feeling their texture, trying to hold on to something until whatever this was would pass. His fogged mind reminded him that last time it had been the hallucinations brought on by that dreadful White Gull, so this time it had to be something similar. He was barely able to form a rational thought, but he grasped at this morsel of knowledge like a drowning man would at a passing log. 

He felt the darkness or whatever moved inside it reaching out, the unseen entity taking great interest in him while his mind fought to understand that it wasn't there at all. It wasn't real, it couldn't be, it had to be the fever. 

Repeating the mantra - this is not real, it is only in your mind, it is the fever - he tried to breathe, feeling his heartbeat rush at the speed of a spooked horse fleeing from danger. 

Frantically focusing on his breathing he tried to remember what had worked last time this had happened. He had been on the staircase and then the darkness had seen him. What had he done? He had screamed, now he remembered, or had he not? It didn't matter. He couldn't scream now, not with his throat already painfully raw, with his voice uselessly rough. Something ice cold brushed past his cheekbones burning with the fever, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

He thought of the moment on the stairs, his fear, and how suddenly there had been Geralt, standing in what had only been semi-darkness, moonlight in his hair. They had gone back to his room together - but then he felt the coldness suddenly cover him, and inexplicably lost consciousness. 

When he awoke again the room was lit by the rekindled fire. Confused he blinked against the warm light. He was lying on his back, head comfortably placed on the pillows, hands on his stomach like a dead man. Remnants of the cold panic he had felt flared up in him, but he focused on his breathing once more, in and out past his hurting throat. His head was still fogged, he was dizzy and slightly disoriented, but at least the darkness was gone. 

Exhaling with relief he tried to calm his heartbeat, not for the first time wishing for a witcher's control, and turned to the side. Blinking against the warm light he had his eyes almost closed again when he realised he wasn't alone. 

The armchair was still empty, but a large fur had been placed on the ground in front of the fireplace, close to the flames for warmth. There, with his back turned to Jaskier, lay Geralt, curled up, head pillowed on his arms, apparently asleep. Jaskier had seen him sleep on the floor like this countless times, often in inns when the bed was simply too small to fit more than one person and Jaskier was granted the privilege to rest his weary bones in a comfort Geralt was already used to denying himself. It was also probably at least slightly more comfortable to sleep stretched out on the fur than to be crouched into an armchair, and Jaskier was already closing his eyes when the blood registered. 

It was on the floor, drenching the fur and Geralt's clothes, the tips of his hair coloured dark with it. In an instant Jaskier was painfully awake, his finally calm heartbeat immediately picking up again, the panic returning with full force. 

No part in him questioned if it made any sense to find Geralt on the floor of his room in the middle of the night bleeding out, no rational voice told Jaskier that he should worry not about Geralt but himself. Instead he pushed himself up on shaking arms, reaching out in a frantic and pointless attempt to help without any chance to actually do so. 

With more effort than he thought he could muster he pushed himself up and out of his bed, crawled more than actually walked over to the fireplace, the short distance seeming like a huge accomplishment. When he reached Geralt he found him calm, pale and perfectly still. Kneeling down and reaching out Jaskier touched the blood on the floor, finding it warm, his fingers immediately smeared deep red.

Without any concept or plan he grasped at Geralt, trying to understand where the blood was coming from. Had the wounds on his side opened again? His mind helpfully took the moment to remind him of the bathhouse, blood running down Geralt's hips after he had pulled the old threads, pooling on the floor before it was washed away by water. 

Tugging at Geralt's shirt Jaskier managed to pull it up in search for any injuries. Skimming his hands over the muscles of Geralt’s side and abdomen Jaskier left bloodied fingerprints on pale skin and old scars, but found no wounds besides the recent ones he had stitched up, red and angry with inflammation but not bleeding. Then he realised that he hadn't felt the movement of breathing on the body under his hands, that there was no apparent heartbeat he could find. In search for it his hands went higher, and he had just splayed a hand right over where it was supposed to be when Geralt woke up. 

He came to consciousness slowly, for a moment almost as disoriented as Jaskier himself was. Blinking he turned onto his back, frowning against the firelight, needing a moment to understand what was happening. Then he looked in confusion at Jaskier kneeling next to him, registered the disarray of his shirt, fingers pressing against his naked skin. 

Suddenly there was a heartbeat under Jaskier's hand, steady and calm, once every four seconds. Jaskier blinked, and the blood was gone. 

But so was Jaskier's strength to stay upright any longer. With a strangled sound he hadn't intended to make he simply slumped forward, being met halfway with Geralt pushing himself upwards. Resting his forehead against Geralt's shoulder and leaning most of his body weight onto him Jaskier felt the heat of the fever return with a force, his body trembling from the exertion. He was cold and burning with heat at the same time, too tired to ever move again and empty from the sudden fall of adrenaline. 

"Jaskier?"

Geralt sounded almost as confused as Jaskier felt, unable to explain what had happened, how Jaskier had ended on the ground and why he was pawing frantically at him. He sat up a little further, forcing Jaskier into a slightly more upright position. His shirt slipped down again, held up only where Jaskier's hand was still pressed against his chest. The medallion rested on top of Jaskier's hand, separated from his skin by fabric but heavy enough to be noticeable. For a moment they simply sat like this, Jaskier listening to the heartbeat under his hand and feeling the gentle rise and fall of Geralt's chest with every breath. 

"You should get back to bed."

Nodding slowly against the shoulder he was leant against Jaskier realised that Geralt was much less annoyed at his inexplicable behaviour than he had expected. He considered saying something, but was distracted by Geralt carefully slipping arms around his body, pulling him first closer and then up, muscles under Jaskier's hand moving as they took his weight. 

Not much later Jaskier was safely back in bed, hiding under his blankets, once more dizzy and now also embarrassed. But Geralt didn't seem to be inclined to require an explanation anytime soon. He watched Jaskier settle in, for a moment sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt still hanging loose. Blinking at him Jaskier realised that he had no idea how to explain what had happened, why is mind had decided to supply him with exactly that image. Why were his hallucinations insisting on him watching Geralt bleed to a slow death on the floor of his room? But he had felt the blood, seen his dark fingerprints on Geralt's skin! 

"Do you need anything?"

Shaking his head Jaskier blinked back the memories of what he had just seen, or rather not seen. Imagined? He didn't know anymore. He felt tired, exhausted from the emotional chaos and the time he had spent out of bed. Slowly Geralt nodded, the worry on his face confusing Jaskier even more. It would surely all be fine, soon, they just all needed to sleep for a moment. 

Burying his head in the pillow Jaskier decided to do just that, turning onto his side again. 

"Right, then sleep."

He felt Geralt moving, standing up from the edge of the bed, the mattress shifting a little. For a brief second Jaskier thought he'd leave the room, to get some fresh air and space to sort through his thoughts, and it left him with a pang of fear. It was completely irrational, pointless, but he didn't want to be alone. What if the darkness returned?

Lifting his head he considered saying something, painful throat be damned, but instead of seeing Geralt's back while he was marching over to the door he watched him kneel in front of the fireplace, just like he had on that first night. And for some reason Jaskier felt himself believing that this was enough, that Geralt kneeling somewhere in the vicinity could single-handedly keep the nightmares away, stop the darkness from coming for him. It was a ridiculous thought, and for a moment Jaskier chided himself. What was he, a toddler? Night terrors didn't require a witcher, and he'd known that for a long time now. 

And still it was the most soothing sight. It was enough for the moment to simply watch Geralt arrange himself on the fur, sitting back comfortably. His hands fell onto his knees, palms turned upwards and relaxed. For a moment he looked at the other side of the room, not focusing on anything in particular, calming his breathing. Then his eyes slowly closed. From across the room Jaskier could count his breath, every intake and exhale slowly moving his chest, and it was over this calming rhythm that he finally fell asleep. 

When Jaskier awoke the next time to someone sitting down on the edge of his bed it seemed to be bright day. The remains of the tapestries over the windows had been pulled back, and weak sunlight was falling into the room. For a moment Jaskier blinked in confusion, unsure of where he was once more. Luckily his mind supplied the correct answer a little bit faster this time and more reliably, helped by the fact that the weight on the edge of his bed belonged to Eskel. He was gently poking Jaskier's shoulder, balancing a rather large tankard in his free hand. 

"Good morning, how's the songbird doing today?"

Trying to answer Jaskier had to cough, nothing but a sad croak coming out of his mouth. It was enough to trigger the pain in his throat again, the sharp pain making him wince. Eskel's free hand wandered from his shoulder to his forehead, calloused fingers cool and comforting while resting there for a moment. 

"Still running a fever I see. So what are we going to do with you? It's been five days already, and we're a bit worried here."

Jaskier felt sheepish at the implication, embarrassed at the fact that his sad human body could be overwhelmed so completely and quickly by something as boring as a sickness. Squeezing his eyes shut he nodded into his pillow. Then he decided to try and sit up, if only to pick up the now cold cup of tea from his bedside table, hoping the liquid would soothe his burning throat. 

He didn't get far. His arms were trembling with the effort even before he was halfway upright, and with his cheeks burning with the mortifying realisation that he wouldn't be able to move his body any further he flopped down onto the mattress again, lying on his side. Eskel watched him with worry in his face, the eyebrow on the side of his face that wasn't disfigured rising slightly. Leaning forward he placed the tankard on the bedside table. 

"Listen, Bard, we've come to the conclusion that you might need a little bit of help here. So I spent a day in the basement, you remember the laboratories?"

Nodding Jaskier rolled onto his back, now slightly worrying himself where this was going. 

"Good, good. So, I spent a day downstairs, was terrible weather anyway. I made you something, and I'd really appreciate if you could drink it. Will get the fever down, help with the headache and aches, right?"

Jaskier thought of Geralt's potions and the terrible things they could do, and apparently the fear was more than obvious on his face. 

"Won't poison you, promise. It's not a witcher's draught, it's tailored for humans."

Apparently Jaskier still looked sceptical, because Eskel elaborated further. 

"No, trust me, it really is. Had it myself plenty of times when I was a youngster, always worked like a miracle. All the boys got it, we were sick all the time, every winter the same old story. And now it's your turn, it just happens. So will you give this a try?"

The rational part of Jaskier's brain recommended him taking the good advice before sinking into the fog the fever provided again, and he nodded carefully. 

"Very good. It just has two little downsides, and you need to know about them."

Trying to prop himself up on an elbow and failing again Jaskier looked up at Eskel, who always seemed on the point of just reaching out to help him and then remembered that he wasn't invited to do so. 

"So, the first is that it tastes revolting. Nothing I could do about that, right, am no alchemist. I have the recipe and know how to make it properly, that's it. The second is tied into the first, as in that it will make you want to vomit, but you can't because then it won't work. The old trick is that you have to sit upright when drinking it and then wait for fifteen minutes, and then it's usually safe."

He watched Jaskier try to understand what that meant, and then helpfully pointed to the floor next to himself, grinning.

"Just to be sure I brought you a bucket. Can never go wrong with a good bucket, right?"

Briefly Jaskier wondered if Eskel was just another of his hallucinations, with his chipper voice and the unsettling grin twisting the scar. But he was definitely real, sitting so close to Jaskier that he could have simply poked him had he wanted to. 

"So now you know everything. Still wanting to try?"

The implication that there wasn't much for Jaskier to actually decide was there, but he could honour that Eskel at least tried to be courteous and ask before force-feeding him. So he nodded, and once more tried to push himself upright. He failed miserably again, and Eskel looked a little more worried than before. 

"You need proper food, and soon. I'll make you borscht, yes? Good one, with beef and a lot of red beets, those will get you strong again in no time. Anyway, we need to solve this issue."

He seemed to think for a very short moment, and then shrugged. 

"So, tell me, how averse are you to being helped a little bit with the sitting-up-part? If you take it while lying down you will absolutely puke, it's proven, ask Geralt if you have doubts. Thought he'd spit his guts out, disgusting. Anyway, let me lend a hand, if you don't mind."

Jaskier needed a moment to follow his thought process, and then found himself being picked up very gently by the shoulders and moved into an upright position. Without any ceremony Eskel slid himself in between the headboard and Jaskier before carefully letting go of him again. Like this Jaskier was comfortably lying propped up against Eskel's chest, held upright gently, head against Eskel's shoulder. 

It was a convenient way to keep Jaskier upright and supported, and probably one of the more confusing things that had happened to Jaskier in the past two weeks. 

"That acceptable for you?"

Jaskier could do nothing but nod. Of course it was acceptable to be suddenly propped against a stable and warm body. Eskel was dressed in a soft woollen tunic, not hard armour, and made attempts to shape his body in a way around Jaskier that made it even more comfortable to lean like this. His chest rose regularly if rarely, and briefly Jaskier regretted not being able to smell anything, even though it was very likely that Eskel was smelling just as much of horses and leather as Geralt usually was. The hotness in Jaskier's face could have been anything, but whatever it was his face was flushed anyway and it was probably just another surge of the fever.

Feeling the movement rather than seeing it Jaskier realised that Eskel had picked up the tankard from the side table. Turning his head to see a little better Jaskier noticed the silver flash of the wolf head dangling from Eskel's neck, now close to Jaskier's head but not touching his skin. 

Then the tankard appeared in Jaskier's view, and he took it. Looking at the murky liquid he realised what Eskel had meant with his explanation. He couldn't smell a thing, but he thought he felt his toenails curl up in anticipation of the horrific draught that was swirling there. He shuddered, steeled himself mentally, and drowned the contents in one single gulp. 

He came back to air coughing from the impact, his throat rebelling. The taste was vile indeed, and he felt the immediate need to spit everything out. The tankard was taken from his hand and replaced by the mug with sage tea, and Jaskier chased the potion down with it as fast as he could. Taking the mug from his hands again Eskel replaced everything on the little table and approved of Jaskier's hardiness. 

"Well done, deep breath and down with it. Now just don't think about it and you'll be good."

That was easier said than done. His stomach was appalled at having been forced to take the liquid in, and it did its best to get rid of it as soon as possible again. Jaskier felt queasy immediately, discreetly trying to figure out where the bucket was placed just in case it would be necessary. Seeing that it was placed just within reach he relaxed a bit, letting himself slump down, leaning his full body weight against Eskel and closing his eyes. 

He focused on his breathing again, feeling how different it was from the way Eskel's chest moved. His stomach wasn't quite content with the situation, but calming himself like this Jaskier was almost drifting off when he noticed the soft vibrations and realised that Eskel was comfortably humming under his breath, probably entertaining himself to pass the time while Jaskier was busy digesting the potion. It was almost painfully endearing, and pulled Jaskier perfectly away from any thoughts of his own lamentable situation. Listening to the soft hum and Eskel's breathing he finally drifted off for good, falling asleep without so much as a worry about embarrassing himself any further. 

Whatever that potion was, it did its job marvellously. Hours later Jaskier awoke, curled up comfortably on his side, for the first time in days with a halfway clear head and sense of his surroundings. He ate the broth Vesemir brought him later, slept soundly to awake in the middle of the night to find Geralt in the armchair reading a large tome with a tankard of ale next to him. Not even staying awake for long enough to ask about the book he simply turned around and fell asleep again, his dreams taking him over the peaks of the Blue Mountains and high up into the air. 

The next morning his throat felt less raw, and the fever was almost gone. He took the second portion of the potion sitting upright entirely on his own, proudly managed not to vomit and then dozed off again. Lunch consisted now of stew and bread, and Jaskier finished the entire bowl and the slice of bread, which he secretly celebrated as an accomplishment akin to slaying a major and very hungry beast with claws and teeth. Eskel stopped by for a while to chat with him, talking exclusively about the large pot of borscht he had simmering on the stove and the pirogi he had planned to make in the next days. In the afternoon he felt well enough to read, reaching for the book with elven poetry and finding with delight that his mind could make sense of the elder speech again when two days ago it had mostly consisted of swirling fog. 

He read for a while, dozed off again and awoke again to the light of the fireplace. He was alone, feeling warm and comfortable, tired enough to fall asleep again soon, realising it was night outside. He was glad that his sense of time had returned, having been completely thrown off by the total lack of it in the past days. He turned to his back and stretched gently, the aching now only a bad memory in his muscles. 

Looking around his room once more he realised that the door was slightly ajar, assumed that whoever had been in there last had probably left it open on purpose and would come back to close it. Curling up on his side he stuffed his pillow into the place he found it most comfortably in and closed his eyes. 

Then he heard steps on the corridor, clearly audible on the stones. Someone was walking fast, almost running, moving down the corridor purposefully. But it wasn't one of the witchers, who all moved almost inaudibly despite their bulk and weight. It sounded more like a human would move, but Jaskier knew for a fact that he was the only one around the fortress. He came to the conclusion that it had to be Coën. If he was a griffin witcher he was probably moving differently from the wolves, right? 

His mind was already drifting off, wondering how Coën fought, and if he could see it and compare to the style the School of Wolf preferred when there was more noise from the corridor. This time the steps were fast, breaking into a run, hastily hurrying down the same direction as before. But this were very obviously small feet running, almost scuttling. And then he heard the voice. 

"Dusko! Dusko, wait for me!"

It was a child calling, running quickly down the corridor. A boy's voice, maybe ten years old, maybe a little bit more, pitched high, shouting at someone walking ahead of him. 

Confused Jaskier sat up, staring at the door as if he could see through the solid wood if he only tried hard enough. There were no children at Kaer Morhen, hadn't been for many decades now. How was this possible?

He wasn't done with staring into the direction the voice had come from when the door was pushed open and Geralt came into the room, carrying his steel sword in its sheath and a small leather bag with utensils necessary to care for it, closing the door behind him. Jaskier hadn't heard him walk through the corridor, but he must have come from the direction the boy had been running into. 

"Is everything all right?"

He looked slightly puzzled at Jaskier's strange behaviour, not being able to figure out why he was staring at the door so intently. 

"Yes, but - where did the boy come from?"

Stopping on his way to the armchair Geralt slowly turned towards Jaskier. 

"A boy? There are no boys in the fortress."

Placing his sword over the armrests of the armchair and the leather bag on the seat he came over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. It was obvious that he was worried the fever might have returned, and he reached out without asking, carefully touching Jaskier's forehead. When he found his body temperature very close to normal he pulled his hand back. 

"But I heard a boy, shouting and running in the corridor."

Tilting his head Geralt just looked at Jaskier for a moment, and his gaze was so unsettling that Jaskier dropped the topic immediately. 

"Nevermind, I was probably just dreaming."

But Geralt didn't move, just sitting there, still simply looking at Jaskier. He was obviously thinking something through, but there was no trace to what he might have been considering on his face and Jaskier suddenly found him impossible to read. For the first time in many years something about Geralt's presence unsettled him. It was a frightening thought at first, but it quickly took root in Jaskier's mind. Combined with the sudden memory of their conversation on their way down from the cave it made for an ugly mixture of animosity and disquiet that Jaskier could only deal with in one way. 

"I'm feeling much better tonight, and will just sleep now. You don't have to sit here, it has to be boring for you. I'll see you in the morning."

Geralt shifted slightly, as if having to cushion the impact of Jaskier's words in a physical way. For a moment he looked unconvinced, but then nodded and rose. 

"Of course. Good night."

Without any further inquiry he walked over to the armchair, picked up his sword and the leather bag and left the room as quietly as he had come, closing the door behind him. It left Jaskier alone with the fire, the wind outside the fortress moving the heavy pieces of tapestry slightly. 

He fell asleep eventually, and neither the voices nor the darkness returned. The next morning he felt himself ready to rise out of bed, desiring not only proper breakfast for the first time in a week but also a fresh set of clothing and a tub to soak himself in. He had already changed when a knock came from the door, Geralt entering upon being bid to. Dressed to go out but unarmed, dark woollen cloak over his thick tunic he looked strangely tired, lines around his eyes betraying that he had probably slept less soundly this night than Jaskier had. 

"Good morning. How are you feeling?"

Sitting on the edge of his own bed Jaskier watched Geralt stand in the middle of the room for a moment, and then nodded. 

"Better, thank you. I just wanted to go down for breakfast. You are going out?"

Geralt nodded, quietly looking at Jaskier as if to check if he was saying the truth. The disquieting feeling of last night arose in Jaskier anew, and he remembered what Geralt had told him last time they had spoken. He decided to cut to the chase, tackle the beast upfront. 

"Since I'm feeling better now and the week has passed I assume you will send me away now. I guess I have to thank all of you for taking care of me. Just tell me whenever I should ride, and I will ready Biel."

He lifted his chin slightly, trying to project that he could cope with this, that it wouldn't be a problem. But Geralt only looked at him, saying nothing at first. Then he turned, stalked over to the window and threw the tapestry back. Brilliant sunlight filtered into the room immediately, and Jaskier blinked against it for a moment. 

Following Geralt's beckoning he rose, and with still insecure steps walked over to the window. Geralt was watching him intently, but made no attempt to interfere and help him as long as it wasn't necessary or he would be asked to. Appreciating the restraint Jaskier came next to him, and followed his gaze. 

Outside of the window he saw the view over Morhen valley, the Blue Mountains clearly in view, sharp lines against a brilliant, almost unsettling blue sky. Everything was glittering in the bright light, the thick layer of snow covering the mountains, trees and the entire valley like a heavy blanket. It was almost painfully white, untouched and perfect, yet absolutely insurmountable. 

Whatever Geralt had wanted, it was useless now. The snow had come, and with a sudden spark of hope Jaskier realised that he wasn't going anywhere at all, and wouldn't for a very long time to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I don't want to sell my life for money / I don't even want to come in out of the rain" is from the poem "Blue Iris" by american poet Mary Oliver.


	9. If the horror /

The snow changed everything. It was everywhere, white and cold, settling on the turrets and crumbling battlements, covering the forests and setting the peaks of the Blue Mountains on cold fire whenever the sun shone too brightly. There was a sudden beauty the Kaedwen landscape had kept hidden before, all its sharp edges and deep rifts now concealed. Everything was a bit smoother, a bit less dangerous looking. What had been black and grey before was suddenly blanketed in light colours, the debris of the fortress hidden like an ugly bride under a beautifully worked veil of pure lace.

And even though the snow brought light - glistening whiteness outside whenever the sun shone, glittering heaps of white everywhere - the days quickly shortened and became dark. Rationally Jaskier had known that the sun rarely showed itself in Kaedwen winters, that the nights would be long and dark, but he hadn't considered what it meant to live in a fortress hidden away in a valley where the mountains rising around hid the sun as soon as it started to set. There was night already in Kaer Morhen when the villages on the Gwenllech were merely thinking about twilight, lights necessary up here when down below nobody looked for their candles yet. 

But as beautiful the snow was, keeping it under control brought a bloody amount of work. Unchecked the white glory turned the courtyards into impassable territory, threatened to push the roofs down under its sizable weight, came suddenly and without warning down the steep mountain cliffs in unexpected and dangerous avalanches. And with the snow the cold had come, turning their breath into white clouds whenever they ventured out. Inside the draught in the corridors and rooms became more noticeable, the fires mandatory now, and even the witchers dressed warmer and kept their fireplaces alight at night. For Jaskier it became uncomfortable quickly, and he moved between the few warm places in the fortress - the kitchen, the library and his room - without lingering anywhere else unless it was necessary. 

His borrowed clothing soon was too thin, and he needed a while to get over his pride and ask Eskel for help. Together they ventured into the unused wing of the keep where Vesemir had taken Jaskier on his first day, and there Eskel heaved the chest down from the shelves and then spent almost two hours watching Jaskier look through everything and take his picks. He was hunting for treasures akin to the cerulean tunic, and even though he found nothing on par with that he was greatly impressed with the selection of coats and cloaks, fur lined jerkins, thickly padded tunics, gloves and hoods. 

He came away with more woollen tunics, knitted from thick thread, a heavy dark blue cloak lined with slightly shaggy looking fur, leather gloves and, to his delight, a knitted triangular scarf of the type almost everyone in Kaer Morhen seemed to have. Geralt himself owned a grey version of it as part of his permanent possessions, a useful thing Jaskier had borrowed more than once when autumn suddenly hit them while still travelling. In the version he picked from the chest it came in blue, apparently a colour that witchers approved of and Jaskier knew went wonderfully with his own blue eyes. 

Thus outfitted he dived back into daily life at Kaer Morhen, now slightly warmer, but still worn out from his sickness. The first weeks he barely ventured out of the keep, staying in his room for most of the time, reading and playing his lute, dreaming the days away. It was comfortable and homely, and whenever he strolled around the fortress or lingered in the kitchen he'd find someone busy doing some sort of task, whether it was cooking dinner or trying to keep the fortress from falling into immediate and irreparable disrepair. 

He watched with interest how the others adjusted around the snow. There was more work to do now, especially when it came to the permanent battle of keeping the fortress at least slightly free from the white plague, to ensure the courtyards were passable, the drill grounds and the paddocks usable. The horses couldn't be taken out anymore beyond the lower courtyards and needed to be exercised, a task for which one of the paddocks had been first cleared as far as possible, then the remaining snow trampled firmly and finally dirt and sand strewn about to keep the hooves from slipping. 

Jaskier had quickly figured out which windows from the level his room was on allowed a view over the courtyards on this side of the keep, and in the first time after his recovery he sometimes idled there, watching life progress down below. There was always something happening that entertained him, be it Eskel and Lambert putting on a snow-shovelling competition, Geralt and Roach having arguments whether she could survive being ridden on the prepared paddock, or Coën feeding the chickens and accidentally setting half of the flock free, causing ruckus and amusement when he rushed around the courtyards trying to catch them again.

Jaskier also quickly learnt that no matter how much effort they put in there was always more work to do at Kaer Morhen. Every evening dinner turned into rounds of bargaining as they were sorting out who had to do what the next day, swapping chores and negotiating like adolescents under Vesemir's slightly annoyed gaze. It was him who could pick his tasks, his unquestionable authority lending him the power to have the final say in almost everything. 

It was also clear that there were things certain inhabitants of Kaer Morhen did better than others, and Jaskier quickly picked up on the fact that Lambert apparently had a knack for saving pipes before the frost could burst them and was also highly in demand as a blacksmith, tending to the horses' shoes, while everything that involved climbing to clear the roofs from the snow always went to either Geralt or Coën. Eskel had a reputation as being a strategic and clever hunter, and spending the day outside the fortress plunging into the deep snow and bringing in whatever prey he could find was something he did every couple of days. His reputation as the best hunter of the pack enabled him to pick whether he wanted to go alone or take someone, and Jaskier quickly realised that accompanying him was a privilege that Eskel only rarely granted, enjoying his solitary excursions too much to invite anyone else along.

Sometimes though he'd change his mind. It could be during dinner or while they were passing each other in the corridor that he'd tap Geralt on the shoulder and lean in or catch him by the elbow and pull him aside.

"Hunt with me tonight." 

Without fail Geralt would tilt his head, nod and the deal was sealed, much to the chagrin to everyone else.

They left in the middle of the night on these days, silently passing through the main gate while it was still pitch black outside, and came back around noon covered in snow, frozen to the bone and usually dragging some unfortunate animal behind them leaving bloody trails in the white snow of the inner courtyard. Jaskier often lingered in the kitchen waiting for their return, wondering how on earth they had managed to catch two boars this size, where the flock of ducks they carried came from and who had gotten close enough to the stag to take it down without anyone being hurt. 

Usually Jaskier would listen to their adventures later that day during dinner when Eskel would lay them down in animated detail for the benefit of the entire table, so there was technically no pressing need to stake his claim in the kitchen and wait for hours for their return. He'd get the story, but what he actually wanted was the moment of their entrance - the wave of fresh air and coldness they brought with them, the way they shook the snow out of their clothes and stamped it from their boots, their cold faces tinged red from the hunt. A human would have stood no chance lying low in the woods in that temperature for longer than a minute or two, and Jaskier wondered how they managed for so long. But they were in exceptionally good spirits returning from these excursions, despite visibly being frozen, once or twice coming back with blue lips and shaking hands, huddling close to the fire after depositing their trophies safely in the cold storage rooms for later processing. 

It meant that Jaskier would get to help Eskel or whoever was chosen for the task prepare the meat later, listening to explanations and chatter, but also that he could watch both hunters bask in their success for the moment, the banter and bickering, their laughing. It didn't last long, usually only for a few minutes until Geralt sobered up again and fell back into the silence that had settled over him ever since the snow had come. If he had been strangely restless before Jaskier had fallen ill he now had done a perfect turn and fallen into a brooding quietness that unnerved Jaskier deeply. 

It wasn't that he was unused to Geralt being brooding and silent, of course. Nobody in their right mind would have called Geralt chatty or even remotely talkative, and Jaskier was used to leading the conversation, to reading into hums, to waiting for a while until Geralt had decided to add anything to whatever topic they were discussing. 

But despite all of this Geralt had a dry wit and sarcastic humour Jaskier could deeply appreciate, could say exactly the right thing at the right time. He wasn't silent because he didn't know what to say, but because he was a hunter by nature, trained to observe and wait for the perfect strike, be it with a weapon or a word. He had watched Geralt destroy entire careers with a single sentence, reduce arrogant pricks to wilting flowers with one word and a glare, silence a room with a tilt of his head and a quiet question. His many years had given him a quiet wisdom that usually remained well-hidden from a world that never looked past the sword on his back and his amber eyes.

So it wasn't out of character that Geralt sank deeper into his silence now with the snow covering Kaer Morhen, and at the same time it unsettled Jaskier deeply. He had no right to be worried, even though he knew that Geralt disapproved of his presence in the fortress for reasons he still had not managed to understand. But there was nothing Jaskier could complain about. Geralt remained calm and unemotional, never uttering a harsh word to Jaskier - or anyone, for that matter. 

He remained stoically silent, even when Lambert tried to rile him up, even when Eskel mocked him gently. At dinner he hummed replies instead of saying anything, listened but rarely engaged, nodded whenever a task was allotted to him and never turned work down, no matter if they wanted him to climb the roof for the third time that week in a howling snowstorm. He put his head down and did whatever was needed, and afterwards returned to the fortress only to keep to himself, rarely lingering around after dinner, missing most of the evenings in the library.

So Jaskier worried, but at a distance. It was barely possible for him to catch Geralt anywhere, not when he was either climbing around the fortress or doing whatever Vesemir had asked him to, and for some reason while everyone else seemed to be walking the corridors constantly it was never Geralt into whom Jaskier ran on a staircase. He suspected that Geralt knew the fortress so well he could easily take hidden passageways, that he could sense Jaskier approaching and avoided him, but he could never find proof for it. 

It was only when Geralt was around Eskel that his mood seemed to thaw a bit, that sometimes a smile was tugging on his lips and the lines on his face smoothed out a little. And while the others didn't seem to mind Geralt's silence Jaskier sometimes saw their glances - Vesemir thoughtfully looking at Geralt across the dinner table, Lambert giving him the side-eye in passing, Coën looking at him with that strange mixture of admiration and wonder. It was also obvious that Eskel was actively seeking him out, and Jaskier started to see them together much more often. Eskel sat in the kitchen while Geralt was busy with pots and pans, would perch on the fence to the prepared paddock and watch Geralt exercise Roach, and they would vanish together on their hunts or during empty afternoons to run on the training path leading around the fortress for as long as the snow allowed them to do so. 

And it was of course Eskel who started a massive snowball battle one morning when Geralt crossed the courtyard after tending to the chickens, a short ambush that started with a single snowball fired from behind a wall and suddenly involved Lambert and Coën as well, all staked out at various vantage points. From the safety of his window Jaskier had an excellent view of the battlefield, glad to be out of the line of fire and highly amused at the fact that witcher speed and battle expertise could also be applied to childish brawls like this, especially when Geralt managed to forge a quick alliance with Lambert and both overpowered Eskel while Coën provided covering fire. Dragging him out from where he had been hiding they threw him over one of the lower walls into a heap of snow from which he had to dig himself out with some struggle, cursing and fretting all the way and promising cold and swift revenge.

And snow or no snow, training and drill sessions continued. They did their best to keep the drill grounds cleared, but since the snow now fell heavily and regularly for entire days they needed indoor training space as well. And if Kaer Morhen had one thing it was space, plenty of empty rooms that could easily be converted into fighting arenas. There was a particularly large room in an unused wing that was already designated for that purpose, having formerly been used as a dining hall, already empty and with a high ceiling. 

It was there, during one of the sparring sessions that Jaskier finally saw Coën train for the first time. Outside the storm was howling, it was already halfway dark in the early afternoon, and Jaskier was settled comfortably on a cushion on the floor watching Eskel and Lambert exchange lazy kicks and blows when Coën walked in, lifted a hand in greeting at Jaskier and took up the other side of the hall. Taking off his sword he slipped out of his cloak, took off his gloves and jerkin and started to warm up. 

Jaskier watched him with some curiosity. He had been meaning to catch Coën at training for a while now, wondering how he'd fight, if there was a difference between the way the wolf witchers fought and what the griffin witchers did. He assumed there had to be, based on the simple fact that Coën was smaller and thinner, just as strong but lithe. A body like that didn't lend itself to the style of fighting Jaskier knew from Geralt, who could count on his sturdy body to absorb heavy blows easily and thus had a very different approach to combat than a lighter fighter needed to have.

There was nothing spectacular in the way Coën warmed up, but already his first exercises made Jaskier stand up and come closer, watching more intently. Because whatever Coën was doing there, Jaskier had never seen anyone move like this before. He was going through various moves that looked almost choreographic, constantly moving, not standing still for a minute. It was a flow of motions that seemed to seamlessly melt from one movement to the other, a series of kicks and swift flying evasions that were acrobatic in their execution, requiring intense concentration, strength and balance. It was elegant and lightweight, almost like a dance, having absolutely nothing in common with the way humans fought or even the wolf witchers were fighting. 

Jaskier was so engrossed in watching that he barely noticed Eskel and Lambert joining him, stopping their own sparring to watch Coën fly around the room, giving him more space to use bigger movements. Coën seemed to appreciate the gesture, taking up the space easily, vertically as well as horizontally. He easily switched between standing on his feet and using his hands to push himself off, agile and fast. 

When he took a break after landing gracefully on his feet he noticed that he had been the centre of attention for a while. He was visibly warmed up but not even close to being out of breath, suddenly relaxed and maybe for the first time since he had arrived in Kaer Morhen smiling. Brushing his hands through his dishevelled hair he walked over to his audience, shaking his arms out a bit. 

"Fucking griffins. Coën, you're a show-off!"

Eskel was grinning broadly, having enjoyed the little display just as much as Jaskier and Lambert. Coën blushed, something Jaskier hadn't been aware witchers could do, and stopped. 

"Well, I do have to train sometimes."

Laughing Lambert leant against the wall, gesturing for him to continue. 

"Do go on, we enjoy the show. Just don't make me try this again, I'm not a bird."

For a moment Jaskier regretted the fact that apparently there was nobody around who could train with Coën, because if it looked that impressive with one person performing it, how did it look in a fight? 

Looking Lambert up and down Coën snorted, already returning back to the middle of the room. 

"Not like you'd get your feet off the ground, you're too heavy for this anyway."

Then he returned into his movement pattern, this time following a slightly different set-up, seconds later flying through the air again. Eskel dropped to the ground next to Jaskier, leaning against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. 

"Are you too heavy?"

Eskel looked at him, and shrugged. 

"Not really. Milos was good at it, Coën spent years teaching him. It's more a matter of preference, I think. Lambert just doesn't enjoy it, that's all."

Briefly Eskel looked at Coën and continued. 

"It could work for you, though. Griffin fighting is based on evasive techniques and strong, sharp attacks that are executed quickly and lethally. It works great for lighter body types with less strength, though you do need a good balance and stamina."

Surprised Jaskier raised an eyebrow, but it was too late. 

"Hey, Coën!" 

Trying to stop Eskel from the inevitable Jaskier punched him in the arm, but there was nothing to be saved there anymore. Coën had heard that he was being called, stopped his motion after a flying kick that had taken him into the air again and landed almost noiselessly on his feet. Eskel waved him over. 

"Our songbird here could use some fighting lessons, and he's shy of us. Why don't you try?"

Looking Jaskier up and down Coën seemed critical of that idea for the moment, and then shrugged. 

"I guess you already told him not to sing about the things he sees here, right?"

Jaskier nodded with some restraint, wondering how he could get himself out of this situation. What Coën had done had looked amazing, but absolutely beyond everything he could ever perform. 

But it was of no avail. Seconds later he was helped to his feet and pushed towards the middle of the room, feeling Eskel and Lambert stare at him with some amusement, obviously expecting to be properly entertained. Deciding to grin and bear it Jaskier focused on Coën, who started to explain a few basic steps that were easy enough to execute for someone who knew how to dance and had some resemblance of body control. But things got complicated quickly, and Jaskier was trying to do his first cartwheel in years, being very well aware what he looked like and cursing at himself - bloody hell, he wasn't a court jester! - when he heard the door open and then close. 

He landed heavily on his feet, and looked up to see Coën shake his head and Geralt wander across the room over to where Eskel and Lambert were enjoying the show. 

"So what's going on here?"

Eskel gestured at Jaskier peeling himself off the ground, explaining the obvious. 

"The songbird needs to learn how to fight, and we thought griffin style could work. Birds of a feather, you know. Seems humans are more encumbered by gravity than we anticipated."

Raising an eyebrow Geralt looked at the scenario and apparently wanted to settle down next to Eskel when Lambert caught him by the arm, turned him around and pushed him towards where Coën and Jaskier were working.

"Don't even think about it. You're the only one here who hasn't tried as well last year, so off you go. Enjoy!"

Almost stumbling over his feet in surprise Geralt caught himself, shook his head and first rid himself of his steel sword and woollen tunic, throwing both at Eskel and then marching over. Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt he stopped next to Jaskier and then nodded at Coën. 

"You are aware that you don’t have to do this?“

Grinning Coën nodded, having slowly but surely started to enjoy teaching Jaskier despite his bumbling failings. 

"Sure. You haven't tried this before, have you?"

Shaking his head Geralt tucked his hair behind his ears and listened to the same quick introduction Coën had given Jaskier half an hour earlier. Picking himself up from the floor Jaskier waited next to him for Coën to show the basic steps, and was glad he could repeat them again, this time with a clear advantage over Geralt who had never done these particular moves before and needed a moment to sort himself out. 

But then he picked the moves Coën showed him up quickly, unlike Jaskier easily capable of copying what someone did with astonishing accuracy and speed. Decades of fighting meant that Geralt had a detailed understanding of how his body worked and could control his movements with precision, as well as copy his opponent quickly and decipher movement while adapting it to his own needs. The fighting style the wolfs preferred was more grounded than the way Coën fought, but there were fast acrobatic elements and Geralt could quickly figure out the kicks and jumps Coën showed him while Jaskier felt weighed down by the weight of his body and the stupid concept of gravity. 

Nevertheless in half an hour Coën had taught both of them a fighting combination of turned kicks and evasive ducks that was easy enough for Jaskier to learn and kept Geralt amused, and standing them opposite each other had them perform it a few times. To Jaskier's bottomless surprise it went well and he immensely enjoyed the dancelike back and forth between him and Geralt, well aware that Geralt was purposely slowing his movements down to adapt to Jaskier's human and untrained reaction speed. 

Only quitting when he was out of breath Jaskier was more than happy with his success, and bowed as exaggerated as possible when Eskel and even Lambert clapped. Fanning himself with his hands he thanked Coën and hurried off as quickly as he could, rejoining Eskel and sitting down again. He was more than happy to stretch his legs out once more and accepted the pat on the shoulder he received for his efforts, thinking for himself that he wasn't even half as bad as he had anticipated. 

For a human, that was. It wasn't without jealousy that he watched Coën continued to explain moves to Geralt, who apparently found the whole situation interesting and had just started to be curious. With concentration he followed Coën's instructions through a few more movements, flying kicks and evasive dives into cartwheels that turned into somersaults landed low on the ground. It required a lot more strength than Jaskier could have mustered, and when finally Coën decided that they should simply spar both of them were already looking warmed up. 

The final sparring-match was breathtaking to watch, taking both of them into the air and low onto the ground. Geralt had picked up a surprising amount of movements and was able to improvise where he had no idea, the fact that he was faster than Coën helping him to balance out his overwhelming disadvantage when it came to technique. It was obvious that Coën would win, but Geralt held his own surprisingly well and Coën finally broke the fight off graciously without claiming a clear victory. 

Both were sweating when they shook hands afterwards, having obviously enjoyed the fight and agreeing that maybe this winter could be used well with extended training sessions. Coën was visibly happy to be able to share his knowledge, and Jaskier had to admit that he was a good teacher, able to explain movement without making things more complicated than they were - even if they were as complicated as jumping on one hand to push off the ground and swing one's legs wildly in the air. 

Eskel and Lambert both had clear opinions on what they had seen, and quickly they were all standing together in a group, debating kicking techniques and the best way to avoid a punch, and how exactly they could teach Jaskier to fight a little better. Joining seamlessly into the conversation Jaskier suddenly felt the warm feeling of being at home again, offering his opinions and being heard, even by Lambert. Coën praised him for not giving up despite being human and thus at a natural disadvantage, and Eskel mused if a mixture of griffin style kicking and blocking in the more sturdy wolf style could work best for Jaskier. They were so engrossed in their debate that they hardly noticed that Geralt silently picked up his sword and tunic and vanished. 

For Jaskier the warm feeling carried easily into the evening, and after dinner he joyfully complied when Coën asked him to sing in return for the fighting lessons. He didn't have to ask twice, and while the others retired to the library Jaskier jogged up the stairs to his room to pick up his lute. He took the long way around to walk off the hearty potato dumplings they'd had for dinner, and finally arrived at his room to pick up the lute. 

He was on his way back, just arriving at the stairs leading down when he suddenly felt a shiver down his spine. It was a most peculiar feeling, confusing Jaskier because it came out of nowhere. Surprised he stopped, listening, waiting for it to pass. Then he heard the steps. 

Someone was moving down the staircase, coming from the level above, two pair of feet moving. The steps came closer, and then two small figures passed by, dim shadows in the darkness of the corridor, visible but very obviously not human. Fascinated Jaskier stared, straining his eyes in the darkness, trying to see and pick up as many details as he could. 

They were dressed in plain clothing in what Jaskier considered to be more or less witcher fashion by now: leather breeches, shirts tucked into them, steel swords appropriate for their small size across their backs. Both wore arm braces made out of leather, tightly laced up, and sturdy boots. They seemed to be roughly the same age, although one was taller, his black hair brushed out of his forehead. The other one, slightly smaller, maybe a little slimmer, had his lighter hair cropped short, obviously cut with a knife and no desire to create anything like a hairstyle. But both of their bodies were clearly used to hard training, not yet muscular but already strong. They were young, about thirteen years old, maybe less.

There was nobody in the fortress but the witchers in the library and Jaskier in this corridor, and yet there were two boys walking down the stairs, at a leisurely pace, in a conversation with each other that Jaskier suddenly realised he could hear. Their voices were faint, but their words were clear, just like the young boy's voice in the corridor had been. 

"I don't think that makes sense at all. I mean, necrophages, right, shouldn't be that difficult."

The taller one sounded as if he was incredulous, his voice still that of a child, and the other one shrugged. 

"But lots of necrophages, that's a problem."

They continued their way downwards, and Jaskier just heard the taller one answer. 

"Sure, but everything is a problem if there's lots of it."

The smaller one agreed, and then both were interrupted in their chat by hurried footsteps coming from above, following them down the stairs, someone rushing at great speed. 

"You said you'd wait for me!"

In a flash a third figure passed by, taking two or three steps at a time, and all Jaskier saw was a small steel sword strapped to the slim back of a boy roughly the same age, maybe a bit younger, brown hair flying as he rushed down the stairs following the others. 

"I said I'd wait for you, I didn't say I'd get whipped just because you can never be on time. Move!"

The taller one laughed, and as the last one caught up the three of them hurried further down. Suddenly their steps and voices were gone, and Jaskier stood in the completely empty and silent corridor once more. 

Staring at the empty space for a moment he needed a moment before he followed the direction they had vanished into, not finding a trace of them anywhere. It was silent now, Jaskier's steps the only sound. 

Briefly he wondered why nobody had told him the keep was haunted. But then what was he thinking? Of course it was haunted, it was an old fortress lying in ruins, barely rebuilt far enough to keep a few witchers warm and safe from the winter storms now when once it had been home to so many of them. They had lived here, but most importantly they had died here. What had Geralt said, barely a third survived the trials? And hadn't nearly everyone perished in the siege? Well, why shouldn't their spirits remain in Kaer Morhen, the only home most of them had ever known?

Shaking his head at himself and the forgetfulness of the living witchers Jaskier trotted down the stairs, back into the library. 

He spent the evening entertaining the group - minus Geralt, who had recently made it a habit to vanish after dinner to Melitele-knew-where - until very late in the evening. Lambert had decided to drag a small barrel of ale up from the kitchen, and Jaskier easily managed to turn the library into a makeshift tavern, singing a few of his more raucous songs and being delighted when it turned out that Coën had heard him perform not once but three times in Oxenfurt and Novigrad, and had a few clear favourites. 

For the second time that day Jaskier watched Coën relax a bit and smile, and made it his personal mission right on the spot to brighten his spirits a bit further. So he sang whatever Coën asked for, plus a few of his own favourites, some of them a few very naughty sailors' songs, dealing with beautiful mermaids and ships lost at sea. Eskel visibly dreamt of his sirens while listening, and even Vesemir grunted his agreement while Lambert busily emptied the barrel. 

There were no ghosts around this night, and the next day passed without anything suspicious happening. Over night more snow had fallen, keeping everybody busy, and Jaskier had consumed enough ale the previous night to spent the entire day holed up in his room, idly plucking the strings of his lute to try and figure out the first lines for the lewd song about Eskel and the sirens he desperately needed to write, reading elven poetry and setting about to copy the first pages of the book into one of his notebooks. He gathered a quick lunch from the pantry, noticed that the kitchen was deserted, and returned to his room without meeting anyone. 

Dinner was almost a continuation of the last night's library gathering, filled with storytelling over stew, Lambert and Eskel both unpacking some of their adventures from last year. Coën remained a little bit less chatty, at times suddenly falling silent and drifting off into his own thoughts. It was rather obvious what he was thinking about, and sometimes when he moved Jaskier thought he could catch glimpses of the second silver chain around his neck. 

The only one not participating in the general merriment was Geralt, mostly because he wasn't there. It wasn't simply that he hadn't shown up, he was obviously not even expected to be there, his chair empty and no plate set on the table for him. But nobody said anything about it, not even Coën, and Jaskier assumed that maybe Geralt had simply gone to bed early.

This time the evening was a bit less raucous than the previous one, but still Jaskier went to bed late. It was pitch black outside when he walked upstairs together with Eskel, bid him goodnight as they passed his room and continued towards his own bed. Still in the corridor he stopped for a moment, looking out of one of the windows. The eternal snow had stopped falling and the night was clear again, stars bright in the sky. Admiring the clarity of the night air Jaskier realised how many stars were suddenly there, how bright they shone. The courtyards hadn't been cleared since Vesemir had done it in the morning, and the fresh snow formed a softly undulating blanket, glittering in the starlight like a thousand diamonds strewn over the ground. 

As if he was pulled by an invisible string Jaskier turned on his heel and instead of taking the stairs up to his room walked downwards. He crossed the entrance hall where only a single torch was still burning, and then walked out into inner courtyard where the stables were. He had no cloak on him, but all he wanted was to stand in the silence for a moment, with the glow from the snow coming from below his feet and the light of the stars above. Tilting his head back he looked up, feeling as if the night sky was suddenly much deeper than before, as if he could look straight into its dark velvet depth towards he didn't know what. 

The cold made sure he wouldn't stay for long. Quickly his hands hurt and his feet complained, and rubbing his arms he turned around to return to the warmth of the keep, up to his room and to bed. He had gone three steps when he saw the shape out of the corner of his eye.

A figure was kneeling on the small stone platform protruding from the defence wall. It was just as defined and clear as those on the stairs had been, despite the darkness of the night. For a ghost there was a shocking lack of transparency about it, and briefly Jaskier wondered whether ghosts were supposed to be see-through at all or if that was just an old wives' tale, like so many things he had thought to be absolutely true about monsters that Geralt had debunked quickly. 

In any case this particular ghost seemed surprisingly lifelike. It was a young man, maybe seventeen or eighteen years of age. He knelt in a fashion that looked a lot like Jaskier had seen Geralt sit in meditation for hours on end, his hands on his knees, his head bowed. And he was dressed like the figures on the staircase had been, in worn-out leather breeches with the shirt tucked in, no weapons, no medallion. Already with muscular shoulders and of a broad and sturdy build he was obviously far advanced in his training, but still an adept, not a witcher. From where he stood Jaskier couldn't see much of his face, obscured by the hair in some shades of brown, cropped just below the chin.

What Jaskier could see was his back, shoulders slumped forwards. The grey shirt was tight over the muscles and coloured dark with blood, long streaks where fresh wounds were still bleeding underneath the washed out fabric. He had been whipped, and very recently, making the whole prospect of kneeling even more dreadful than it already was, the second punishment after the first one had already been handed. 

The figure wasn't wearing a cloak, but then there was no reason to assume it had been winter when he had been told to kneel there, with his back still bleeding, the shirt probably painfully tight over the fresh wounds. Discipline at Kaer Morhen had always been cruel, Geralt had told him, and only now Jaskier realised what that actually had meant. 

Then the figure tipped his head back, looking up at the sky for a moment. He turned and looked to his left and right, apparently checking his surroundings to see if he was alone, and when he was satisfied slumped to the side, with a groan coming out of the kneeling position and stretching his legs. Wincing at the movement he brushed his hair out of his face, tucking the strands behind his ears.

Jaskier stood unmoving, forgetting about the cold. There were slight differences in built and probably height, the hair colour was different, cheekbones a little less sharp, the face so much younger, but still it was easy for Jaskier to recognise with absolute certainty that he was looking at a younger version of Geralt. It was in the body language, the way he carefully stretched his shoulders while trying not to aggravate the wounds on his back, the annoyed frown on his forehead. Even the low cursing sounded familiar, though the voice was a bit lighter, not yet as husky as Geralt would sound later in life. 

But it didn't make sense. If the ghosts were the spirits of the dead boys, why was he seeing Geralt? Who, the last time Jaskier had checked, was perfectly alive? 

Moving carefully Jaskier walked closer, his steps crunching on the fresh snow. He was sinking up to his knees into the wet coldness, knowing perfectly well that he should go back in instead of investigating. But he was too curious. All those years he had wondered what Geralt had looked like before the trials and now it was all presented before him on a silver plate - the chance to look, examine, answer a few of his questions. 

But the figure seemed not particularly inclined to remain still. He stretched his arms, and then curled up again, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Without any grace he scooted closer to the defence wall, leaning his side against it. Carefully avoiding the wounds on his back he let his head sink against the hard stones, closing his eyes, hair again falling over his face again and obscuring it. 

Jaskier looked at the crouching figure a moment longer. Curled up against the wall he looked younger than he probably was, tired with the defeat of the punishment, yet already perfectly capable of dealing with the pain of bleeding. He hadn't looked particularly desperate, rather as if he were used to the fact that he was forced to stay where he was, without help or any comfort for his wounds. It reminded Jaskier already a bit too much of the Geralt he knew, whose ability to compartmentalise pain and suffering Jaskier suddenly felt less inclined to trace only to the trials but maybe also to early familiarisation with the concepts. 

Suddenly Jaskier realised that his feet were wet and very cold. He blinked once, rubbed his cold hands and when he looked up again the figure was gone. Still confused Jaskier returned to the warmth of the keep, climbing the stairs to his room slowly, wondering how he could ask Geralt why he hadn't elaborated on the fact that when he had said he could still see himself kneeling after all those year he had meant it quite literally. 

It was a task for the next morning, and according with it Jaskier staked a claim in the kitchen early, hoping to catch Geralt at breakfast. Instead he met Eskel stirring the pot of kasha, listened to Vesemir and Lambert discussing the repair of the enclosure for the chickens, and watched Coën pour almost the entire pot of cherries over his kasha before drowning it in honey. 

Geralt, however, did not show up, and it took a while before everyone was gone and only Eskel remained, already peeling potatoes in preparation for the night's dinner. Jaskier watched him, trying to find a good moment for his opening question, surprised when Eskel put down the little knife and looked up. 

"Spit it out already, the staring is a little unnerving."

Blushing Jaskier nodded. 

"Didn't mean to. Do you know where I can find Geralt?"

Eskel tilted his head, and then shrugged and returned to his work. 

"In the basement. Here, get some potatoes and a knife, make yourself useful instead of just sitting there."

Following his orders Jaskier got up, collected the large bowl with potatoes, knife and cutting board and returned to the table. 

"In the basement? Fixing something?"

He took the first potato and started to peel it, making sure to waste as little of the tuber as possible. Only when he threw it into the bowl he noticed that Eskel was looking at him again, apparently considering his answer. Then he sighed. 

"No. He'll be down there for a few days, don't worry about it."

In surprise Jaskier put his knife down. 

"What is he doing in the basement for a few days?"

It didn't make sense. Nothing he had heard about the basement had sounded particularly inviting, and it didn't make sense for Geralt to vanish there for a few days. But Eskel hesitated again for a moment before nodding, picking up a new potatoes as he spoke. 

"Sleeping, I hope." He saw Jaskier's exasperated face and mercifully continued. 

"There's a cell down there, a little room. No windows, thick walls, just one door and a pallet. It was used in the old days for newly created witchers to recuperate in the dark after the trials. No light, no sound, no smells, perfect isolation."

There was nothing in that answer that helped Jaskier, and he motioned for Eskel to continue.

"That's it, songbird. He locked himself in, and will stay there for a few days. He does that every year, sometimes for longer periods, sometimes just for one or two days. I think he'll be back in a week this time."

Apparently he thought that was enough of an explanation for Jaskier, and looked back at his hands to continue his work. Clearing his throat Jaskier decided that this conversation wasn't over yet.

"Why the hell would he want to do that?"

It seemed like a nightmare. Locking himself into an underground cell with no light, sound or smell, in perfect and utter isolation - he would go crazy within a few hours, he knew it for sure. 

It was only then that Eskel realised he wouldn't get to focus on his work anytime soon, and put the knife and potato down for good. Then he leant against the counter and crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

"You know a thing or two about witcher senses, don't you?"

Jaskier nodded, and Eskel continued swiftly. 

"And I know that Geralt finally told you about the second mutation." He looked down for a moment, then shrugged. "Anyway, witchers have better senses than humans do. We hear things you don't, see them, smell them. For a new witcher it's a nightmare to learn how to control that, how to filter and block unwanted things. The first month are horrible, but then we get used to it. In the first time, however, that little dark cell is a gift. Lets you take some time off, right? You can relax for a moment in the dark, nothing to filter. Blessed silence!"

He tilted his head, nodding to himself. "We like the quietness, another reason why we will never give up Kaer Morhen. You humans are a rowdy bunch, it's nearly unbearable to live in your towns and villages for longer, even your heartbeat is like thunder to our ears. Anyway, after the second mutation Geralt's senses got sharper then they already were, and that's a bit of a problem sometimes."

Blessed silence! How often had he heard Geralt ask for that, to stop chattering for a moment, stop plucking the lute, no more songs. Just the silence on the road, the sound of Roach's hooves on the ground, the rustling in the leaves. He had known about witcher senses, of course, had seen them in action plenty of times, but somehow had never made the connection. Eskel continued his explanation without waiting for Jaskier's thought processes to finish.

"In the beginning it was hell for him. Constant sensory overload, and because nobody knew what exactly had happened during the second mutation nobody could help him. He was almost desperate at times."

In Jaskier's mind scenes from almost a decade of travelling with Geralt flashed by. Loud nights at a tavern from which Geralt vanished a little bit too early, his sour face amongst a market with shouting fishmongers and crooked peddlers of spells canvassing customers with their cries, the ruckus of a town in upheaval at one or another political problem while Geralt was hurrying to get away from the crowd, and just the noise of humanity in general that followed them wherever they went - the chattering and singing, the bickering and yelling, loud declarations of love or hate. 

And in contrast their camps in the woods or the desert or wherever their journeys had taken them, the silent nights he knew Geralt preferred, only the fire crackling, Roach snorting contently, leaves rustling and birds calling. He had always thought Geralt liked those nights because he was alone, away from human eyes prying and judging and had never considered that it also meant that he could be away from a noise that was probably annoying at best and torture at worst. Suddenly Jaskier felt ashamed for years of idle chatter, pointless lute plucking and all the little songs he trilled daily to keep himself company. 

"That explains a lot."

To Jaskier's surprise Eskel understood what he meant. 

"We all get used to our little peculiarities eventually, so don't worry. He's learnt how to cope.“

Tilting his head Eskel looked at Jaskier briefly as if trying to figure out if he really wanted to continue. To Jaskier's surprise he decided to follow through with what he had planned to say. 

"You know, songbird, that second mutation was nothing to joke about. Nobody knew what they were actually going for, not even Vesemir, and the aftermath was terrible."

There was a hint of anger in his voice, but Jaskier couldn't properly place it. 

"What do you mean, nobody knew what they were going for? Geralt said they were going for, well, a better type of witcher."

When Geralt had talked about it the purpose had sounded pretty clear and straightforward. 

"Sure, but what does better mean? Less humanity, but then more of what? Master Zenob had a plan, or at least that's what I hope, but as far as I know it was never disclosed. An experiment, you see, you don't expect that to survive longer than a few days. But then they suddenly realised that he'd live, that they couldn't dispose of him discreetly anymore, so they just stood there and were nervous about the thing they had created."

It was another perspective on the whole scenario that twisted Jaskier's heartstrings brutally. But he also noticed Eskel sounded far more bitter than Geralt, who had been rather resigned and accepting of his fate. 

"Master Zenob?"

Grunting Eskel nodded, openly displaying that whoever Master Zenob was he was rather no friend of his. 

"The mage and alchemist who devised the mutations. He was the leading figure in all of that back in the day, the trials always had been in the hands of mages. Did you think we did that ourselves? We were just the crude materials they played with, moulding us to their will, watching us die."

Jaskier felt a wave of emotion swelling up at Eskel's words, regretting that there was nothing he could do or say to heal those old wounds. Briefly he wondered if he really wanted to know more, look deeper into the abyss of suffering he had always guessed had to be there but never really stared into before.

"What happened to him?"

Shrugging Eskel turned back to the counter and dinner preparations, reeling himself back in with the ease of someone who could control his emotions and was expected to do so. 

"Died in the siege. Nobody crying for him here, even thought it does mean no more new witchers. It's for the better, if you ask me."

He picked up the knife again, signalling that he was done with the topic. Jaskier, however, wasn't just yet. 

"I see. Let me ask one more thing and then I'll stop, I promise. You said Geralt survived and they couldn't dispose of him?"

Eskel stopped his work of peeling the potatoes, not looking at Jaskier for a moment. 

"You have a knack for finding the weak spots, do you know that?"

Jaskier nodded, but he didn't take the question back. Eskel sighed, knowing that he wouldn't get out of it anymore, not when he was already so far down. 

"Well. You've seen Coën's eyes, right?"

It wasn't clear how that was related to the question, but Jaskier nodded. 

"Not all mutations go smoothly, and eyes like Coën has are a sign for that. Sometimes things go wrong slightly, not too badly, and the adept survives. That's what happened to Coën. The griffins didn't mind that as much, as long as the witcher survives he's good, details be damned. Here at Kaer Morhen protocol was more strict. The trials needed to be completed perfectly, otherwise the end product wasn't acceptable."

Trying to follow his line of thought Jaskier couldn't come to a conclusion he'd ever dare to speak out loud or even think. And still he had to ask the question, push one final time, stepping closer to the abyss and whatever was swirling there.

"But what happened to those that weren't able to complete the trials, well, perfectly?"

Turning towards Jaskier Eskel looked at him, amber eyes completely unreadable. Then he shrugged and turned back to his work, suddenly all matter-of-fact again. It did nothing to soften the blow.

"Quick little blow with a steel dagger, and done with it. Vesemir owns a very nice stiletto for that specific purpose."

He glanced over quickly to watch Jaskier pale. 

"I don't want to give you nightmares, Bard. But when I told you we here in Kaer Morhen are used to death I very much meant it. But no more of that. You'll see that Geralt will be back soon, and it will have done him good to rest a little. Now focus on the potatoes and tell me what meat you want to have with them."

Returning to his work he then refused to say anything more about the trials, and Jaskier had enough material for three month of nightmares from his few sentences already and decided not to bother him further. Somehow Geralt had apparently failed to mention a few of the more ugly details, as he tended to do in all his tales. 

For the next days Geralt remained hidden in the basement of Kaer Morhen, somewhere locked away in a dark windowless room below the surface. In his dreams Jaskier sometimes thought he knew where the cell was, that he could imagine the cool darkness, wondered if Geralt was meditating or simply blissed out in undisturbed sleep, no noises from unruly humans or unnecessary song disturbing his peace. 

The fortress had never before felt that lonely. It had been one thing to know that Geralt was wandering around, working, training, possibly avoiding Jaskier, but it was another thing to know he was there but would not appear. Somehow Jaskier had always been hoping to run into him, to see him through his window with the view of the courtyards, to at least meet at dinner every evening. 

It wasn't as if the others weren't taking care of him as best as they could. Life continued much as it had before, now including the fact that apparently Eskel had decided to teach Jaskier how to win every bar brawl of the next years by creating a mixture of evasive fighting to confuse an opponent and quick and impactful hits. It was an interesting mixture of wolf fighting and griffin technique that Eskel and Coën worked out together, and taught Jaskier with more enthusiasm he had ever thought possible, guided by side comments from Lambert and eye rolling from Vesemir. It kept Jaskier busy in the afternoons and tired in the evenings as he slowly adapted to regular training and the terrible reality of doing more pushups than ever before in his life, his body aching and still not up to form from the sickness he had just recovered from. 

In the mornings he took on chores he now got allotted during the dinner assemblies, small bits of work here and there, mostly indoors or in the stables. Taking part in the care for the horses was one of them, and together with Lambert he marched them down to the paddock almost daily, cleared the stables and helped to repair broken items of horse tack. 

He quickly discovered that all of their horses had a very specific personality, and developed friendships with most of them. It was especially Lambert's white mare Yella that took to him quickly, and he counted it as a serious win when Lambert asked him to exercise her on the prepared paddock just as he did with Biel. The others were a bit more shy, including Roach, who gracefully accepted being brushed down now and then but was only ever exercised by Eskel, a task he took on with great seriousness and daily attention. 

And still Jaskier missed Geralt. He wasn't lacking work or social interaction, but there was a difference in the quiet reassurance Geralt's presence gave him and what he got from the others and his tasks. He was busy during the days and tired in the evenings, comfortable and well-fed, finding acceptance by showing that he, too, could pull his weight when it came to work for his keep, that despite being human he could be useful. Yet he was restless. Whenever he wasn't working or training he wandered the fortress and weather permitting the grounds, as if he was searching for something he couldn't put his finger on. 

It was in these days that the ghosts started to appear more regularly. He saw them at day and night now, but only ever when he was alone. It was as if the first two sightings had broken the dam, as if they had realised that Jaskier could see them and were eager now to reveal themselves. 

At first it was delightful. Whenever he would stumble over them somewhere he felt the now familiar tingle on his back, turning around to meet another boy running somewhere, small sword on his back, almost tripping over his own feet in his eagerness. It didn't take him long to figure out which one of these shadows was actually familiar and who wasn't, and it quickly dawned on him that he saw mostly those he already knew, little vignettes of their life and moments from memories they had already shared with him. 

It was never a long moment, only ever brief flashes, someone rushing past him, two boys appearing out of nowhere and immediately vanishing again. He saw Eskel jumping off a horse, maybe fourteen years old, tall and already on the way to becoming handsome, apparently returning from his year in Ban Ard and being greeted like the lost son of Kaer Morhen he ostensibly had been. There was a slightly younger looking Geralt being dragged across the courtyard by Vesemir, his hand a firm grip around the boy's arm, back bare and showing clear signs of having been beaten as a punishment for a deed Jaskier couldn't not figure out. He watched boys spar under Vesemir's careful supervision, shadows of them hanging onto the fence of the paddock patting noses of horses long dead. They ran through the corridors and weaselled around the stables, and somehow they kept Jaskier company when he felt most lonely, brightening his mood with their shadowy antics of days long gone. 

He started to look out for them, and sometimes followed their footsteps if they ran past him, leading him deeper and deeper into Kaer Morhen. Following their trails he started to wander around the keep when his time permitted it, eschewing afternoons in his rooms and even neglecting his lute to try and trail the ghosts just a little bit longer, to see just a little more. 

Bolder by the day he passed through the wings Vesemir had forbidden him to ever set foot in, finding them empty and desolate, doors off their hinges, remains from the battle lying around in the form of broken furniture, ripped books, torn-down tapestries. It was also dark, as most windows had been nailed shut to keep the weather and animals brave enough to venture into the witcher's keep out. Even when the sun was shining only rare beams of light fell into these corridors and rooms, and Jaskier climbed over falling walls and loose stones in the semi-darkness while straining his eyes. Still he was fairly sure those areas were still statically stable, that the ceilings wouldn't crash around him and bury him in a rain of stones and dust. 

And the ghosts seemed to repay his bravery with more and longer appearances. He could now predict where and when the ghosts would appear by the shiver dripping down his spine, instinct pulling him towards the areas of the keep where something would happen, his curiosity guiding him faithfully over the debris and into the dim light of the abandoned corridors. 

But here in the dark guts of Kaer Morhen he caught glimpses of the other side of life in the fortress. The ghosts had seemingly grown older now, no longer young boys but adolescents, fifteen, sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. He watched them move between the rooms and in the corridors, swords on their backs, their faces more stern, more grown-up already. The scenes he saw now were different, more violent, laden with grief and emotion. 

One afternoon he looked through an empty door frame into a room where suddenly furniture stood, beds made up with sheets and pillows, a younger version of Geralt sitting there, bent forward with his long hair brushed to the side while a young Eskel was cleaning his shoulders carefully with a sponge.

"You just really need to learn when to shut up and stop talking back to Vesemir. It wasn't all healed up from last time, you'll get more scars."

The young Geralt sniffed, dropping his head, wincing at the touch. Jaskier moved closer, leaning against the frame of the door while peering into the dim room. He hadn't heard them speak for a while now, only distant chatter and laughing. But he easily recognised Eskel's voice, already broken into the melodious baritone he knew. Watching with interest he realised that Eskel had been handsome, dark hair brushed back over his forehead, his hazel eyes bright with intelligence. They were maybe fifteen years old, though Geralt looked younger, smaller than Eskel, less sturdy and currently very pale.

"It's not your problem what I do or don't."

Eskel snorted, dipping the bloodied sponge into a bowl filled with clean water. 

"Let me remind you that Dusko is dead and won't help you anymore, so you better be grateful I'm doing this at all."

Geralt reacted just like he would have done in this day. In a swift motion he brushed Eskel's hand aside, jumping up from where he had been sitting, turning around and glaring at the other boy, grey blue eyes glittering with anger. It was the first time Jaskier managed to see him fully and note his eye-colour, strangely anticlimactic after all these years of guessing.

"Then fuck off, I wasn't asking for help."

But he sounded far less impressive than he'd today, barely convincing with his still high voice breaking with the emotion. He sniffed again, wiping his nose on his wrist. His knuckles were bruised into an ugly black as was the left side of his chest, though Jaskier couldn't say if the bruises had come from an accident or a hit he had taken. 

The young Eskel dropped the sponge into the bowl, shrugged and turned away. 

"Fine, cope on your own. We'll see how well that goes."

Then he marched off, straight towards Jaskier, who automatically moved out of the way before the shadow could reach him. But the figure was gone before they touched, and Jaskier was left with an excellent view upon the young Geralt, who stood staring at Eskel's vanishing back before crossing his arms in front of his chest, wincing at the movement. He sniffed again, biting his lip, and then turned around and marched over to the window. Seeing his back with its ugly wounds criss-crossed over it, bright red over already almost healed old ones, the first scars indeed already visible Jaskier couldn't help but feel anger coil in his own stomach.

He could almost hear Geralt's voice lecturing him on the need for discipline, but right in that moment it didn't seem like the younger version would agree with the older one. He watched the boy bow his head, his shoulders trembling for a moment, and realised he was crying silently. 

Without realising Jaskier reached out, a sudden and unnecessary lump forming in his throat, but before he could do anything that was pointless anyway the figure vanished and the room was empty with nothing but dirt and the empty bed frames. 

That night Jaskier came back from his little excursion to the dinner table with the firm decision to ask Eskel or anyone, for that matter, what exactly was going on with the ghosts. But it never happened, the occasion not arising, the conversation drifting around without Jaskier having any chance to get a word in. He returned to his room feeling emotionally drained, hoping that tonight he'd be rewarded with a night of dreamless sleep, that he wouldn't have to see anything sad again. 

His wish was granted, but only until the next afternoon. He was balancing on the fence in the sun, watching Coën longeing his black mare, the clicking of his tongue and commands the only noise disturbing the silence. It was a calm afternoon, sunny after days of snow, and the morning had seen them clear more of the white horror from the courtyards. Now the heaps were glittering in the light, and Jaskier had to blink constantly to avoid being blinded. He sat comfortably on the fence in his borrowed warm cloak, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, Biel's bridle draped over his shoulders in preparation for a late afternoon training session with his own gelding, who had gotten a little bit plump with the good care he received in Kaer Morhen. 

Feeling relaxed and at ease Jaskier looked over to the paddocks where the horses were idling around, Biel and Roach standing around a patch of grass that one of them had apparently managed to dig out of the snow, gnawing away at whatever greenery they could find. Rolling his eyes Jaskier considered doing something, slipped off the fence and walked towards the paddock to call Biel. 

In passing he threw a glance towards the view. The Blue Mountains seemed to be far away today, their peaks shrouded in a few clouds that had gotten stuck there. The sweeping view was lovely as always, but by now Jaskier was used to it and turned around again. Then he realised that something had been off, and looked back towards the lower meadow. It was never used for the horses, but it had also not been cleared from the snow, which lay high and untouched, a perfect white blanket. 

Then he felt the familiar shiver down his spine and blinked. For a split second the snow was gone, revealing short grass, the entire meadow looking like it had been cut too short. And then there were the mounds, four of them in total, newly heaped up, dark earth and dirt rising above the meadow in symmetrical fashion, perfectly lined up. He thought he saw two tall shadows with swords on their backs standing there, but it was all over too quickly, and when he blinked again they were gone. The meadow was once again covered in snow, perfectly even and untouched, because nobody, not even witchers, used a graveyard for anything else than as a resting place for their dead. 

They could have told him, but they hadn't told him about the ghosts either, so he wasn't particularly surprised. Still he stared at the meadow for a moment before continuing his way towards the paddock where Biel had already raised his head, nickering as Jaskier drew nearer. Climbing over the fence he waited for Biel to come, and was surprised to find Roach trotting towards him as well. Reaching out to her he patted her neck for a moment, and then slipped the bridle over Biel's head. Taking him away he looked over his shoulder to watch Roach looking at him with what he thought was disappointment, a feeling he could absolutely understand. The wounds on her croup had healed perfectly by now. 

Later that afternoon he was once again in the kitchen, helping Eskel put together their dinner for the day. Rolling dough out with a large rolling pin, readying it so Eskel could drop spoonfuls of filling made out of minced meat onto the dough, cut and fold the squares to they could be cooked and later served with sour cream he could easily pick up the conversation.

"Can you tell me who Dusko was?"

He watched Eskel look up from the bowl of filling he had prepared earlier, frowning for a moment. 

"Haven't heard that name in a long time. Did Geralt mention him?"

It was the perfect opportunity to mention the ghosts, and yet, somehow, Jaskier decided against it. He couldn't explain why, especially since he had waited for days now to find the perfect moment to finally ask what was actually going on. But somehow something told him to keep his mouth shut, to wait just a little longer, to try and find out what else he would see. So he just nodded and shrugged, which wasn't exactly a lie. To his surprise Eskel fell for it. 

"It's short for Dusan. We grew up with together, a long time ago. He died a few years before the trials, don't remember when exactly."

He scraped a bit of filling off the spoon and added it to a dollop already sitting on a square of dough, looking at it pensively. 

"Why did he die?"

Shrugging Eskel dug the spoon back into the bowl, picking up more filling for the next square. 

"You're asking strange questions these days, songbird. I think he fell ill, a high fever, something like this. You sure know how that sickness is, having had it yourself."

Looking at Jaskier from the side he frowned a bit more. "Now that I'm thinking of it you're a bit pale. What are you doing all these afternoons we don't see you, are you resting?"

Jaskier made haste to nod, and proceeded to promise Eskel to eat better and rest more, wondering why exactly he was lying once more.

It occurred to him during dinner. He walked into the hall and for a split second thought he saw Geralt sitting in his usual place, elbows on the table, talking to Lambert. The image was gone as soon as it had appeared, but suddenly Jaskier knew that he wanted to speak with Geralt first, wanted him to answer his questions and not Eskel or anyone else. The realisation that he was missing him a lot more than he was willing to admit hit Jaskier with a surprising intensity, and he chided himself mentally before sitting down and claiming his share of dinner.

Still the thought stayed with him, and the next afternoon when everyone was busy and Jaskier left to his own devices it was as if magic was pulling him downstairs towards the hidden underbelly of Kaer Morhen. He knew that this was truly forbidden territory, that he was under no circumstances supposed to be where he was heading, that he'd disappoint his hosts if he would be found out. But some absolutely irrational part of him thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd find the door behind which Geralt had now been hiding for almost a full week, that he could bang on it and rouse him from his silent slumber so that things in Jaskier's world would make more sense again.

It was absolutely idiotic, but Jaskier had done worse things for lesser reasons in his life, so he didn't question his logic. Instead he took the one staircase that led downwards, hidden in the furthest corner of the entrance hall, turned a few corners and found another staircase. It was dark down here, and he was glad he had remembered to bring his matches, setting the torch he had found in the pantry alight. With the light of the fire dancing on the ground and the walls he continued downwards, finally reaching the end of the stairs. In front of him a long corridor opened, the ceiling high, rough stone on the walls and floor. There were a few doors, two to the left and one to the right, all three of them closed and probably firmly locked. Walking past them Jaskier noticed that they were made out of metal instead of wood, heavy and thick, set to either keep someone out or, well, something in. 

The silence was thick down here, Jaskier's steps and the almost inaudible crackle of the torch the only sounds. Moving forwards Jaskier realised that the corridor suddenly ended, running towards a fourth door. It was made out of metal as well, but larger than the other three, and it had a small window now closed by a shutter so that whatever was happening inside could be viewed from the outside. And unlike the other doors it was slightly ajar, with nothing but darkness hovering behind it.

Stopping Jaskier stared at it, the dreadful pull he had felt earlier making room for the slow realisation of fear. It spread through his stomach like liquid cold, and he felt the hair on his neck rise like the fur of a cat would. 

Then there was the by now familiar shiver. Jaskier blinked once, and the corridor was suddenly lit by torches on the walls, four on each side, giving a gentle light dancing on the floor and the ceiling. Confused he stepped back towards the wall, and noticed the light coming from the room where the door was slightly ajar. Against his better judgement he inched forward, towards the light, too curious not to fall for the trap. He heard voices, or so he thought, Vesemir's rumbling bass, two or three others talking. There was the sound of metal clinging, maybe chains being moved, rustling fabric. Again there was Vesemir's voice, authoritative, loud. 

"Stand up. You can now leave."

There was a movement, a hushed groan. Vesemir repeated the command. Once more there was the rustling of fabric, the sound of someone moving. Then he thought he heard a gasp of surprise, steps moving hurriedly. He wanted to move closer and peer into the room, but then he noticed that in the light shadows were moving towards the door and instead of forwards he stepped back. 

In silence he watched the door being pushed open fully, revealing the figure of Vesemir standing behind it. He seemed younger than he was now, wearing proper armour, though there was no sword on his back. He wasn't alone. Next to him stood another witcher Jaskier had never seen before, short grey hair and amber eyes, dressed in deep greens and brown leather armour, the wolf head dangling on his chest. Next to him, much smaller and thin, was a man in robes as mages wore them in an odd shade of turquoise, his head shaved close to the skull, glasses perched on his nose in his pointed face. The mage wasn't alone, another one dressed in robes similar to his in every aspect but the colour - deep red instead of turquoise - standing behind him. 

But all of them were looking not at each other or into the corridor but at a fifth person they were making way for. Emerging from the inside of the room was yet another version of Geralt, finally in the shape Jaskier was familiar with, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in leather breeches with a light coloured undershirt. Everything he wore was soiled with blood, already dried as well as fresh, torn in places where more bruised and bloodied skin shone through. There was blood all over his face as well, running from his lips that had been bitten open repeatedly and from where his nose had been bleeding shortly before. 

And if it was possible to make the whole vision stranger yet he was blindfolded, a piece of black cloth covering his eyes, tied behind his head on top of his long dark hair that was sticking to his skull matted with sweat. He walked very slowly, setting his feet down carefully, swaying as if he had been drugged and could barely keep himself upright, every step forward a victory in a battle he was fighting with Jaskier knew not what exactly. 

In this slow and strange fashion he exited the room, head hanging low. He held his hands stretched out before him, even they bloodied, violently trembling while reaching out for something to hold onto. He careened to the right against the wall of the corridor, using it as guidance towards the staircase Jaskier assumed he was aiming to reach. Where his fingers were brushing over the walls they left bloodied imprints on the stones.

From a few steps away Vesemir, the other witcher and the mages were following him, staring in disbelief, their eyes wide. But while Vesemir was obviously shocked at what he was seeing the little mage in turquoise seemed gleeful, his eyes lightning up in the most alarming fashion. 

Thus the little procession crossed the entire corridor, the four spectators following every of Geralt's unsteady and obviously painful steps. He was breathing shallowly and too quickly, needing a moment to rest after every other step leaning heavily against the wall of the corridor, sweat forming on his forehead and running over his face, shoulders curled forward. Worried Jaskier watched the dreadful procession, and didn't understand what he was looking at. Why was nobody doing anything?

Then Geralt reached the staircase. He took two steps up and finally collapsed, his legs giving way under him. Lying on the stairs in a heap he was visibly fighting to remain conscious, trying to breathe, to get some semblance of control he had too obviously already lost. The little group had followed him almost halfway through the corridor, but nobody moved to help him when he broke down on the stairs. 

It was finally Vesemir who crossed the corridor towards the staircase in a few quick strides, taking the two stairs up and bending over the trembling Geralt. Placing a hand on his back he looked at him before he spoke, very silently, meant not for the ears of the others waiting in the corridor. And the mages were not listening, already eagerly whispering amongst each other, while the other witcher was watching them with worry in his softly gleaming eyes. 

Jaskier, however, perfectly heard what Vesemir was saying. 

"You fool, what did I tell you before the trials?" 

Trying to push himself up on shaking arms and failing Geralt dropped down again, his laboured breath sounding more and more rattling the longer he fought to remain conscious. 

"Can't - remember - "

Even his voice was pained, hoarse and barely audible.

"Don't lie to me. Why do you always think you have something to prove? You will only ever doom yourself."

Vesemir sounded angry, but his hand was firm and gentle on Geralt's back, and there was more desperation than actual anger in his face. 

"Well, it's too late for regret. Let's get you into the dark where you can rest. Relax, boy. It's over for now."

And without further ado Vesemir bent low, and pulled Geralt up from where he lay crumpled on the stairs, gently setting him on his feet while supporting him, taking most of his body weight. He turned around, and suddenly he and everyone else in the corridor were gone, the torches dead, only the light Jaskier carried dancing over the walls and floors. 

For a moment Jaskier stood in the dark with bated breath, unable to tear himself away from what he had just seen, his heart beating too loud in his chest. Then he turned around, marching back towards the stairs, abandoning the original plan that had led him down here, slowly climbing back towards the light. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with this scenario, why he had been shown this moment. It was easy to piece together what had happened, though, and at least he knew now why the basement was forbidden territory. 

And if he was honest he completely understood why they didn't want him down there. With everything Eskel and Geralt had told him, with what he had known before but mostly with what he had seen now it was obvious that the trials were no topic for idle conversation. 

He took the images of pain and blood with him into the evening and even during dinner was unable to brush them from his mind. Nobody noticed his silence, and when he excused himself from the library Eskel only nodded, probably thinking Jaskier was taking his order to rest a bit more seriously. But there was no rest to be had for Jaskier that night. He sat on his bed in the light of the fireplace, his lute in his lap, playing melodies that always turned sad after just a few chords, as if he was suddenly unable to think in any major keys. Falling asleep eventually his mind concocted a strange dream in which he was always running from Kaer Morhen and was brought back, Vesemir dragging him down towards the basement to lock him in behind the large steel door, forcing him onto a table and then, cruelly and slowly, dismembering him while he was fully conscious and without any chance to ever escape. 

Jaskier awoke more tired than he had been the previous evening, trembling from the nightmare. The water in his washing bowl was cold, and he had goosebumps on his arms when he stumbled through the archway into the kitchen. There the fire was crackling merrily, and next to the pot with kasha a second pot with warm cider was heating the kitchen further. Eskel and Coën sat at the table with bowls in front of them, discussing a necessary trip towards the mountains for bringing in blocks of ice to keep the storage cool with Geralt, who was wearing a thick dark grey cloak wet from the snow outside, hands wrapped around a tankard with warm ale he was sipping occasionally.

Barely out of the archway Jaskier stopped in his tracks, holding his breath and then trying to exhale discreetly, without making too obvious that suddenly his heart was light again and the nightmares of the past hours washed away by the sheer wave of relief he felt. Collecting his bowl with kasha he marched over to the table, sat himself down right next to Geralt and nodded at everyone before tucking into his breakfast, trying to look as innocent as possible so that nobody would notice that the bench was actually rather large and there was absolutely no reason for him to sit as close to Geralt as he right now did. 

It was ridiculous, but it was the next best thing to simply throw himself at him, right now, here in this kitchen, and he was very sure that Geralt wouldn't be too pleased with that specific scenario. So he simply sat the tiniest bit too close, just so he could physically feel the presence of Geralt, the wetness of his cloak brushing against Jaskier's side. His hair was tied back and wet from the snow that had melted there recently, and there was a little bit of redness on his cheekbones indicating he had come in only very recently and was still warming up. He was very much his usual self, awake and calm albeit unshaved, hands around the tankard steady. But on a second glance he looked tired still, the lines around his eyes maybe even deeper than they had been before. A man who had just spent a week asleep in coveted solitude looked different, and briefly Jaskier wondered what Geralt had done in the basement, or if he had been in the basement at all. 

His voice, however, was very much as always, devoid of emotion though currently tinged with a hint of annoyance.

"So Lambert doesn't want to go?"

Coën pulled the honey pot towards himself, spooning more sweetness over his kasha. Geralt looked at him with a hint of disgust on his face, but didn't bother to explain his probably already well-known dislike for sweetness. 

Eskel shrugged, pushing his empty bowl away. 

"Nobody wants to go."

Leaning over he plucked the tankard from Geralt's hands and drank from it before setting it down empty for Geralt to take back, an insolence for which he earned nothing but a growl. 

"I'd go, but I don't know the way. Geralt, you show me."

Coën mumbled the offer between spoons of kasha he was hastily consuming, as always eating as if he was ten seconds away from starving to death. Turning to him Eskel looked unconvinced. 

"You hate the snow, and you volunteer for that?"

Shrugging Coën continued to shovel his breakfast into his mouth, not answering for the moment. Geralt took the opportunity.

"He's a fucking witcher, Eskel, he won't freeze to death from a little walk in the snow. Unlike you, it seems."

Glaring at Geralt Eskel bared his sharp canines for a moment, hissing just a little. 

"It's a three day hike in the hailstorm, and fuck you, too."

Grinning Geralt stood up, collected his tankard and deposited it in the basin. 

"There's no hail out there, and the weather looks stable. But with the rate the snow is falling we either go very soon or we won't at all this winter, which would be a disaster for our food supply." 

The infliction of his voice changed on the last part of the sentence, sudden irony lacing into his usually dry tones, making very clear who would fret the most if the food supply would in any way be endangered. 

Eskel hissed a little bit more, but it sounded more like a bitchy cat than anything really dangerous, and Jaskier could barely contain his amusement. He watched Coën hiding his grin in his beard, only his glittering eyes indicating that he was highly amused. 

"Are you calling me gluttonous?"

He sounded highly offended, but Geralt only finished cleaning his tankard and dried it on a towel before vanishing towards the pantry to replace it. 

"A wimp, maybe."

Slamming a fist onto the table and suddenly standing up Eskel turned around and marched towards the pantry where Geralt had vanished.

"Take that back."

He disappeared into the pantry, and Coën leant back on the bench to try and catch a glimpse of what was happening. 

"Prove me wrong and I will."

They heard Eskel grumble something under his breath and then Geralt returned into the kitchen and towards the table where Coën quickly returned to his former proper seated position. 

"We'll be leaving tomorrow morning, Eskel will do us the honour and accompany us. He will complain all the way, but he'll be useful when it comes to carrying the ice."

Coën nodded, visibly trying to remain as neutral as possible, and Geralt turned around to leave the kitchen. Eskel choose that moment to appear from the pantry, carrying a crate laden with vegetables he set down on the counter. 

"No dinner for you tonight, you bastard. I don't complain at all, you're giving Coën a bad impression."

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head Geralt marched past Eskel, slapping him on the back with enough force to bend him over before turning towards the stairs leading upwards. 

"You're worse than Jaskier, and he's human and has some grounds for his complaints."

Then Geralt vanished, quick and light steps up the stairs, gone before Jaskier even had the time to react. Eskel was bristling with annoyance, and Jaskier felt strangely proud at the hidden compliment he had just received wrapped into a slight insult. 

It was good to have Geralt back, even if it apparently was just for the day. But it seemed as if the week he had spent in the basement had helped to pull him from his sombre musings and returned some semblance of normalcy to his behaviour, even if it hadn't helped to clear away the tiredness from his face. 

He slipped back into his everyday duties as if nothing had happened, and they only met again in the afternoon when he came to the paddock to collect Roach. Jaskier had been on the return trip from the chicken enclosure, a little basket with freshly laid eggs in hand as he heard Roach nicker happily somewhere behind him. Turning around he saw Geralt leap over the fence, and she trotted over to him and enthusiastically shoved her head into his chest twice, nearly throwing him off balance. He rubbed her head gently before turning around and walking towards the gate, Roach following him eagerly and without any need for a bridle. He let her out of the paddock and guided her towards the stables, and Jaskier watched them vanish around the corner of the keep and out of sight. 

Making haste to follow them, careful with his basket with eggs he took the shortcut around the back of the keep, past the bathhouse and through the little corridor cut into the stone of the mountain. He emerged on the other side just as Geralt arrived at the stable, signalled for Roach to stop and ordered her to stay where she was while he vanished inside. Snorting she stood, her breath forming thick white clouds in front of her nostrils, her cheerful chestnut coat a pop of colour in the landscape of black and white around her.

When Geralt returned he carried a box with brushes and a carrot, which Roach took eagerly from his hand and was busy devouring while he started to brush her down thoroughly. Walking up Jaskier cleared his throat so Roach wouldn't be too surprised at his appearance, and leant against the wall of the stable in a sunny spot, putting his basket down next to him. It wasn't warm anymore, the sun far too weak for that, but he could pretend that it was a little less cold here than it was on the other side in the shadow of the keep. 

Roach snorted in greeting, still busy with her carrot. Geralt didn't look up from where he was brushing down her legs, the horse between him and Jaskier for the moment. 

"So where have you been?"

Jaskier asked the question as casually as possible, trying not to add the unspoken other half wondering why he had vanished without a word. 

"Resting.“

He wasn't looking at Jaskier, not even when he moved from Roach's hindlegs to her back, long strokes with the brush more of a massage than a cleaning. She shook her head and dropped her neck, stretching under the firm but gentle care with pleasure. 

"Eskel said you locked yourself in the dark for a while."

Geralt hummed a reply that could have been an affirmation as well as a denial. He didn't care to elaborate, working his way over Roach's side before switching over. Now he was on the same side of her as Jaskier was, starting the procedure anew and working his way from her neck towards her back and side. But he still wasn't looking at Jaskier, busy with the brush, focused on Roach. 

Watching his back Jaskier suddenly felt treated wrongly, as if Geralt's sudden return to silence was a direct affront to him. Looking at what he could see - a sharp profile, the firm line of his jaw, white hair tied back with the few loose strands tucked behind his ear and those strange, unfamiliar lines on his face - he decided to once more get to the point instead of waiting for acts of courtesy that would never come. 

"Look, I'm sorry I'm still here. I didn't meant to thwart your plans, it wasn't on purpose. But I can't change what happened, can I?"

Even to himself he sounded a bit more offended than he had meant to, but really, what was he to do? Geralt wasn't exactly making this easy. Even now he didn't look up from where he was passing the brush down Roach's hindlegs, pausing for a moment to carefully examine the healed claw marks, looking for scars that were not there. For a moment he simply looked at the healed cuts, pensively and silent, and Jaskier remembered brushing his hands over the stitched wounds on Geralt's torso and how they had been inflamed, angry red against pale skin. It had been an illusion, just like the blood on the floor, and yet the image stuck with Jaskier.

Then Geralt shook his head once, and continued brushing Roach. 

"There is no need for you to apologise. But you have to be more careful around here."

He said it off-handedly, but Jaskier suddenly thought Geralt had seen what he had done in the past week, that maybe he knew everything and wasn't pleased. It was an absolutely absurd notion, because it was simply impossible. Geralt had been tucked away somewhere, hiding from the world as a whole and Jaskier in particular, and had absolutely no right to tell Jaskier what to do. 

"Well, thank you for the reminder. I think I can take care of myself pretty well by now."

Done with Roach's hindlegs Geralt straightened up again, brushing a hand over her back. Snorting she stomped her front foot once, but remained otherwise unmoving. Tapping the brush against his boots to get the dust and dirt out of the bristles he kept busy, putting the brush down into the box, digging a hoof pick out instead. Clicking his tongue and tapping the front leg Roach then lifted obediently he cradled the hoof and started to clean it, examining the state of her shoes as he was doing it. 

When he was done he let it go again and straightened himself. For a moment he simply stood, looking at Roach and then at Jaskier leaning in the sun against the stable wall. He said nothing, simply watching Jaskier as if he hadn't seen him in a very long time and needed to remember what he looked like, to really take a moment and see him. There was nothing in his face betraying what he was thinking and Jaskier couldn't quite put his finger on the emotions being observed like this incurred in him. 

"If you say so."

Then Roach snorted and shook her head, breaking the spell. Geralt shrugged, looking at the hoof pick in his hands before moving towards her hindleg to repeat the procedure there. Only when he was done with all of her hooves and returned to drop the hoof pick off in the box he stopped, standing close to Roach, leaning his back against her breast for a moment, her long neck draped over his shoulder. 

Briefly Jaskier had the completely absurd idea that he needed Roach for the support, leaning more of his weight against her sturdy body than it seemed, a thought he quickly brushed from his mind again. It was complete humbug, of course, probably a remnant of the things he had seen in that corridor last night, of having to watch the blood and the pain on Geralt, the shadow of him slowly breaking down and falling on the stairs. And it hadn't been just an illusion, this much Jaskier knew. The pain was gone now but once it had been real, together with the blood and the desperation.

"Why should I be more careful?"

Jaskier posed the question tentatively, trying to gauge whether Geralt was being unreasonable in the way he sometimes tended to be, or if there was a hidden truth behind his behaviour that actually could do Jaskier some good. 

But Geralt only shrugged, and peeled himself off Roach's warm body. 

"Just be careful."

It as all he said before turning around and walking towards the stable to return the box with the brushes and find his saddle, leaving Jaskier with Roach and the sudden and very frightening knowledge that maybe Geralt himself had no idea what he was warning him of beyond a dark presentiment of danger that he couldn't quite grasp, a sense of foreboding that was slipping through his fingers and out of his reach like sand through an hourglass.


	10. If the horror / is inside of you / how

When Jaskier opened his eyes the next morning it was still pitch black in his room. Finding himself unusually awake for the ostensibly very early hour he peeled himself out of his warm bed, wandered over to the windows and threw the sad tapestries back, expecting a light coloured night sky outside, maybe a hint of dawn on the horizon. Instead he was looking into the worst storm he had ever seen, dark clouds hanging low over the valley, hail and sleet falling thick like a curtain. Briefly he wondered whether Eskel had prophetic skills or more magic than he'd let on, or if Geralt was just particularly shite at predicting the weather up here. In any case, there was no doubt that nobody in their right mind could have ventured out, and secretly Jaskier was pleased to know that Geralt wasn't going to vanish again as quickly as he had planned to. 

He needed a candle to shave without cutting off his nose and dressed as warmly as he could. The corridors were just as gloomy, the windows there offering no different view than the one in Jaskier's room had. 

It wasn't until he arrived in the kitchen that he found some semblance of warmth and light, the fire there burning bright as usual. The kitchen was empty, but there were voices coming from the pantry, and while Jaskier filled a bowl from the already almost empty pot of kasha he couldn't help but listen to the last threads of what had to have been a longer conversation. There were steps in the pantry, back and forth, and it turned out it had to be Geralt pacing the small room. 

"I don't know how."

He sounded frustrated in what seemed like a reluctant confession. 

"Well, I can see that clearly."

Eskel's voice was mild, but not too enthusiastic. He continued without waiting for an answer from Geralt.

"We should talk tonight. Maybe I can find a solution."

It was an honest offer, and it seemed that Geralt was taking Eskel up on it. Moments later he appeared out of the pantry, nodding at Jaskier and vanishing through the archway up the stairs. Eskel appeared shortly after, settled at the table and launched into a lengthy explanation of why storms in Morhen valley could last for weeks, gently preparing Jaskier for dark days ahead while gloating just a little bit about the fact that he had known the hailstorm would come and was also now spared a hike he had been roped into against his will.

But when Jaskier asked him if he had any hidden prophetic qualities he only snorted and tapped the scar on his face. 

"Nothing to do with magic, just experience and observation. Sometimes things are much more simple than we think, not everything has supernatural powers behind it."

Stuffing the last spoonful of kasha into his mouth Jaskier wondered if there was a hidden message behind that, if Eskel was trying to tell him something he wasn't going to spell out any clearer. But he switched topics easily afterwards, and Jaskier left the kitchen slightly confused. 

The hailstorm lasted the entire day, howling around the fortress, battering its weakened defences, rattling the windows and pulling already loose stones free. In the distance the boom of avalanches coming down from the mountains could be heard now and then, and Jaskier felt absolutely no need at all to venture outside even for a second. 

He wasn't alone with that particular opinion, and he wasn't surprised to stumble over an impromptu assembly of the collected inhabitants of the fortress standing around in the entrance hall debating whose turn it was to go outside and feed the chicken, check for the stability of their enclosures and then tend to the horses that would need to remain in the stable for now. They were bickering back and forth, with Eskel and Lambert finding more and more wild excuses while Coën nobly watched from the sidelines together with Jaskier. 

It was decided when finally Vesemir had enough. He only needed to look up once, catch Geralt's eye and tip his head towards the exit. Eskel and Lambert were still discussing who had to face the cold hail when Geralt was long gone to collect his cloak from his room, heading outside into the howling storm without a single word. 

He returned almost an hour later, drenched to the bone by the ice cold water and properly dishevelled. He reported an issue with the chicken shack and went off again in search for tools and wood. For most of the day Jaskier saw his hunched form stalking back and forth between the keep and either the chicken enclosure or the stables where he was feeding and comforting the nervous horses, a dark shadow wrapped into his already drenched and useless cloak, leaning against the gusts of storm. Occasionally Vesemir joined his efforts, but most of the times he was on his own.

He finally stumbled into the kitchen for good when it was already properly dark outside again and Jaskier was helping Lambert after having spent a most relaxing day inside, wandering between the library and his room, sparring with Eskel and otherwise not being particularly busy. Forcing the door shut behind him against the push of the wind Geralt looked like he had spent the day fighting a particularly wet monster, dripping water all over the floor, pale with the cold and his hair a drenched and entangled mess.

Cursing he shook out his cloak before slipping it off and wringing it out, leaving a puddle on the floor that made Jaskier click his tongue in disapproval. Rising an eyebrow Geralt spared him the comment, instead wiping water off his face and trying to untangle his hair. Lambert, busy cutting vegetables that were supposed to go into jars to be pickled, recommended a pair of scissors to deal with it once and for all, but Geralt only growled and vanished up the stairs to dry himself off, impatiently tearing his fingers through his hair and only worsening the sorry state of it. Usually Jaskier would have intervened right then and there, having ample experience in dealing with the silver white mess in various states of disarray, but the angry frown on Geralt's face told him to keep his distance.

During dinner the angry frown had made way for tiredness, and Geralt looked like he'd rather vanish to his room and drop into preferably dreamless sleep as soon as possible instead of sitting around the table and listening to the others complain about the hail. He reported about the damage to the chicken enclosure and his repairs, not bothering to voice what exactly he thought of having to deal with the issue on his own with only Vesemir for help while an entire pack of wolf witchers was sitting idly in the warm keep enjoying themselves. It was very clear in his voice and face anyway, and even Jaskier felt a little sheepish, even though he wouldn't have been of much help anyway. 

Just as they had agreed upon in the kitchen this morning Eskel and Geralt vanished after dinner. It left Jaskier sitting in the library as if on hot coals, wondering what they were talking about, if this could be the chance to tell them about the ghosts. He listened to the storm howl outside, the fire crackling, and couldn't decide. The atmosphere in the library was peaceful, with Lambert and Vesemir playing a card game while Coën had taken the opportunity to claim the camp bed next to the fire and was quietly dozing, enjoying the warmth, curled up like a large and very content cat.

It was only Jaskier who fidgeted in his chair, unable to focus on his reading, to allow the words to flow into his mind like they usually did. Instead he watched the fire dance, tapped his fingers on the armrest and finally succumbed to the urge to do something. Snapping the book shut he stood up abruptly, disturbing Lambert and Vesemir in their concentration and fled the library murmuring excuses. 

The corridors were calm and almost quiet, if one didn't count the storm rattling the window panes. The draught was horrible, and Jaskier was cold minutes after leaving the library. Moving up the stairs a little faster than he needed to just to warm his body he was strangely out of breath when he arrived at Eskel's door. For a moment he hesitated. Then he knocked. 

There was no answer, and he couldn't hear voices. Had they gone somewhere else?

Against his better judgement he tried the door and found it unlocked. Carefully pushing it open it revealed the room Jaskier already knew from having seen glimpses of it now and then when he had accompanied Eskel back from the library or picked him up. Like every place in Kaer Morhen it was bare and simple, with only the most necessary furniture and a fireplace.

But at least it was warm and comfortable. There was a bearskin spread on the ground in front of the fire, and there were Eskel and Geralt, who had indeed not gone anywhere else at all. They just weren't having a conversation either. Both were kneeling on the ground, facing each other, settled comfortably and sunken into silent meditation. Or at least Eskel seemed to be from what Jaskier could determine. He saw only his back, but he didn't move at the opening of the door and gave no indication that he wasn't peacefully immersed, sunken into a state of deep concentration. 

Geralt, however, sat facing the door and was far from focused. Jaskier had barely understood what he was looking at when his eyes opened, far too quickly for him to have been anywhere near a state of meditative concentration from which he usually needed much longer to return to wakefulness. His focus was immediately on Jaskier, the tension that had gripped him at the opening of the door only slowly seeping out of his shoulders again. But he said nothing, simply looking up from where he knelt, unmoving. Then he very slowly lifted an eyebrow, and Jaskier understood the advice to get himself out of there rather quickly, for once taking it. 

Closing the door behind him he stood in the dark corridor again, chiding himself for the unwise decision to intrude without being asked to. And yet he felt it like a rejection, even though he had only been thrown out of somewhere he had not been invited into in the first place. 

The restlessness he had felt earlier in the library returned, and he decided to take the long way around to his room. He couldn't go out, not with the storm and the cold, but why not walk the fortress? It was big, and by now he knew it well enough. 

It was darker the further he strolled away from the inhabited areas, colder by the minute. Climbing over obstacles he already knew well Jaskier arrived in the corridors of the unused wing, finding that a few of the window panes that had been still intact were now broken in the onslaught of the storm, letting the cold rain and the hail into the keep. The storm brought waves of ice cold wetness with it, and Jaskier immediately regretted his decision to go wander around. Quickly deciding to abandon the idea he turned around again, and stood facing the shadow of Eskel. The shiver down his spine came at the exact moment he laid eyes on him, just in time to move to the side and let the figure pass. 

He had never been this close to any of the shadows, not even when they almost threatened to walk through him. Eskel passed by close enough for Jaskier to reach out and touch him, if he had just desired to do. And yet Jaskier knew, with sudden and absurd certainty, that he'd only grasp the cold empty air if he were to hold out a hand, and that still the action could result in unforeseeable consequences. So he kept his hands to himself, simply pressing to the wall of the corridor, feeling the cold stone against his back and watching Eskel pass by. 

It was the first time Jaskier met the young version of Eskel after he had become a witcher, having beforehand only seen him as an adept, a young boy in training or barely an adolescent. Now he was fully transformed, and Jaskier could take his time to observe him from close up. It was maybe more haunting to watch Eskel like this because the witcher Jaskier knew simply wasn't looking very much like his younger self anymore. 

Few things remained from this figure Jaskier was watching, with the exception of the amber eyes and the slightly longer dark hair brushed out of the forehead and tucked behind the ears. But the scar had distorted his face so thoroughly that he was barely recognisable compared to his younger self, all high cheekbones and a sharply cut jawline, the contrast between his dark hair and the fire in his eyes striking. Jaskier had already guessed it from seeing him as an adept, but it was only now that he realised that Eskel had been almost terrifyingly handsome, enough to make Jaskier stare and wonder how he had taken the disfigurement when it had happened. It was also very easy to imagine him now as the lover his tales made him out to be, as Jaskier knew how he himself would have reacted had he stumbled over Eskel somewhere in a tavern years ago, acknowledging he'd have melted like butter in the sun at the combination of rugged handsomeness, Eskel's very particular charm and, well, that damned witcher body. 

Right now, however, Eskel was still moving stiffly, apparently freshly out of the trials, still slightly unsure about his changed body and its exact workings. He was dressed in the usual fashion, shirt opened just a little bit too wide over the strong chest displaying more skin than stricly necessary, sleeves rolled up over his forearms. But he wasn't yet wearing the wolf head around his neck, and had no weapons on him. 

He seemed to know where he was heading and was halfway down the corridor, Jaskier watching his strong back with every step, when there were steps on the staircase. Someone was walking up, steps solid and firm, and for a split second Jaskier thought he had been found out, that someone was coming to fetch him. 

But then there was the familiar shiver down his spine and when Geralt appeared it wasn't the actual current version of him but another shadow. Just like Eskel he passed by Jaskier closely, and just like him he was already past the first round of the trials, his hair still dark but his eyes already amber. 

"Eskel!"

And still his voice was lighter, deep enough but still not the gravelly baritone Jaskier was so used to. The shadow of Eskel turned around, fast and agile, and stopped. For a moment he simply stood and stared, as if he was seeing Geralt for the first time in his entire life. It went both ways, because the figure of Geralt had stopped right next to Jaskier and stared back. For a moment they just stood and looked at each other, as if they couldn't quite believe their eyes. 

It was Eskel who crossed the distance, marching back towards Geralt. Without hesitation they embraced, just for a moment firmly holding onto each other before letting go again. Standing closer now they kept on staring at each other. It was Eskel who finally said something, having to clear his throat before being able to speak. 

"You're alive."

His voice was thick with relief, and when Geralt nodded he exhaled a sigh. Then he looked Geralt up and down, appraising what he was seeing once more. 

"Looking good, brother."

The raised eyebrow was exactly the reaction Jaskier would have expected. But Eskel was right in his assessment, if Jaskier said so. And seeing them standing close together reminded Jaskier how similar they had looked once, traces of which he had still seen today when he had met Eskel for the first time in that sad tavern in the horrible village. Like this it was impossible to deny that they were brothers, after the trials more than before, even though some similarities had to be nothing but coincidence. But even more fascinating were the little differences Jaskier hadn't noticed before. Eskel's eyes were a little brighter than Geralt's, fire next to amber, and he stood just a little taller, shoulders a little more broad. He looked older like this, more mature, which was unexpected given that the Geralt Jaskier knew so well seemed to be burdened by centuries while Eskel had kept a rather youthful appearance, if one ignored the scar. 

"Likewise." 

Eskel grinned, slapping a hand on Geralt's shoulder, obviously unwilling to let go of him just yet. 

"It's good to see you. I didn't know you made it, you know. I thought - well."

Geralt frowned, but he didn't seem averse to the hand still on his shoulder. 

"They didn't tell me anything. Where are the others?"

The grin dropped from Eskel's face. 

"He really didn't tell you?"

Geralt shook his head, the frown deepening. Eskel sighed, the hand on Geralt's shoulder gripping tighter. Then he seemed to give himself a mental push. 

"It's only us."

Jaskier watched with rising sadness how Geralt's eyes widened slightly at the realisation, the emotion he didn't yet know how to hide seeping through.

"No, that can't be - all of them?"

Eskel nodded, gravely and slowly. 

"Yes. Look outside, you can see the graves."

He steered Geralt towards one of the windows, and Jaskier knew those were looking out towards the courtyards where the paddocks were and the meadow he had now realised was a graveyard. Watching them move to the window he kept his distance, even though he knew they couldn't see him intruding on the moment, being long gone themselves. 

Both stared out of the window into what now was only the darkness of the storm, but had probably been a spring day many years ago. Geralt's hands lay on the windowsill, and while he remained completely still Jaskier noticed his fingers digging into the stone, knuckles whitening. 

"Fuck."

Eskel nodded, not saying anything. 

"Why did they already bury them? They could have waited, just until - did you see them?"

Geralt's voice was filled with anger, a mixture of rage and grief burning. Jaskier thought he could feel the hurt, and his own heart beat faster at it. 

Shaking his head Eskel turned towards Geralt, still holding onto him.

"No, they buried them at night. They didn't tell me, I just saw the graves and drew conclusions."

Geralt turned around abruptly, away from the view and from Eskel, shrugging the hand on his shoulder off. Stalking across the corridor Jaskier could see the rage build in the tension of his shoulders, the way his fists were curled by his side. He reached the other side of the corridor and in an impressive explosion punched the wall. The stones remained unimpressed, and it did nothing to sooth his fury. 

"At night like you bury a fucking dog!"

He turned around, leaning his back heavily against the wall, almost colliding with it. The anguish on his face surprised Jaskier, and apparently even Eskel. But when he opened his mouth to say something the figure of Vesemir appeared in the corridor, apparently out of nowhere. Jaskier recognised the armour he had seen on him in the basement, but if he had been worried then he was angry now. 

"Watch what you say. A witcher now, and no control at all. Get a grip, boy."

Geralt stared at him, eyes narrowed, the tension in his body an unspoken threat. 

"Why didn't you give us a chance to at least see them off?"

Vesemir moved closer, completely unfazed. 

"So you are in charge now in Kaer Morhen?"

He walked closer, until he was standing directly in front of Geralt, his height and the fact that Geralt was still leaning against the wall enabling him to stare down. 

"You still have a lot to learn. And if you believe you're making decisions here because you walked out of the trials you're in for a disappointment. Spare yourself, Geralt, and keep your mouth shut."

He held the eye contact for another moment, and then turned around in a display of indifference that Jaskier found almost painful to watch. Walking down the corridor he passed Eskel, nodding at him. 

"Follow me. You might not be in the mood, but we have to discuss how you will receive your medallions and weapons." Looking over his shoulders he cast another disapproving glance at Geralt. 

"Though some of us might need to rein themselves in if they want to wield a silver sword."

Staring back Geralt made no motion of backing down or apologising, amber eyes hard, the anger still palpable. Then Eskel moved to follow Vesemir, and suddenly they were all gone. 

Standing alone in the corridor Jaskier felt his rapid heartbeat rushing, the emotion from the scene he had witnessed coursing through his body as if he could still feel it. He wanted to lean against the wall and suddenly realised how cold he felt, how dark the corridor was, how the wind was howling outside. Turning around he very carefully picked his way back towards the staircase, down and towards the inhabited areas. His restlessness was still there, had maybe only increased with the onslaught of emotions he had just witnessed. 

And yet when he arrived at his room he suddenly felt tired, his legs heavy. Staggering through the door he noticed that the fire was still giving warmth, needing just a little more wood he easily fed the flames. Watching them dance he tried to exhale, to clear his mind. He had always known himself as morbidly curious, but somehow he wondered if there was a breaking point to his curiosity. There was no denying he was immensely interested in Geralt's past, in how life at Kaer Morhen had been, what had shaped these men into what they were today. It had been entertaining watching the boys run around, having them keep him company. 

But this, now, this pain and violence, and the suffering nobody acknowledged, how was he supposed to deal with that? He couldn't talk about it, not when nobody knew he was seeing it, that he knew what had happened to them. How could he mention the horrors he was watching unfold in front of him? And Geralt wasn't even talking to him, not even about the mundane things. 

Frowning Jaskier sat on the ground in front of the fire, cross legged, holding his hands out for the flames to warm them. Humming to himself under his breath he tried to calm his mind with soft music, but it took long before he could pick himself off the floor and go to bed. Chiding himself he slipped under the covers, draped the furs over him. He had seen worse in the past years when it came to violence, blood and desperation, and it had been real and present, happening in front of his very eyes. Why was it this, then, that rattled him so much? 

He couldn't put a finger on it. Lying in the darkness of his room he kept on wondering, and then, finally, felt the lead in his bones seep into his mind and his whirling thoughts sink into heavy sleep. 

The next morning the storm was still outside his window, just as Eskel had told him it would. His body was aching and somehow his mind seemed slightly clouded. Briefly he worried the sickness could have returned, but his throat felt like it was supposed to and his voice was smooth. But when he tried to find a little song to keep him company he quickly ran out of notes, as if it took too much energy to think about the next flourish. Sluggishly he ventured towards the kitchen and into the day. 

Breakfast didn't help, and he joined Eskel for their daily sparring session reluctantly. He had slowly gotten used to the reality of daily training, the endless pushups and various movements to strengthen him, the exercises to train his coordination and balance. There was punching and kicking as well, but it seemed that whatever Eskel and Coën had planned required far more work on basic movements than Jaskier, who had only ever thrown his fist out in rough anticipation of what part of his opponent he had plans to hit could have anticipated. It always left him exhausted, but he already noticed how his body was changing, adapting faster than Jaskier had thought possible. The downside were his aching and sore muscles, the bruises over his chest and forearms from blocking hits or taking them when he was too slow to react on time. 

So when he sat on the floor this morning watching Eskel and Lambert warm up with a slow fight he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt after taking his cloak off, taking inventory of the bruises on his forearms and feeling slightly discontented at the perspective of more blows to his already black and blue coloured skin. He noticed the door to the hall being opened and Vesemir and Geralt joining them, but he didn't pay them any attention. They usually took up space on the other side of the hall, sparring either with swords or whatever weapon they favoured that day. 

He didn't look up until light steps stopped next to him and Geralt suddenly knelt next to him on the floor. He was dressed for a sparring session, sleeves of his shirt already rolled up and hair tied away from his face, steel sword on his back. In his hands he carried two rolls that looked like cotton bandages. 

"Hold out a hand."

Surprised Jaskier looked up, not having expected Geralt so close and so focused on him. Without understanding why he followed the request, holding out his right hand. Geralt unrolled the bandages, and without any further explanation proceeded to wrap up Jaskier's hand, covering the back of it, knuckles and palms, crossing the bandages over his wrists and up his forearms. His hands were warm, skin calloused and rough, but gentle. At the first touch Jaskier felt the soft tingle of the magic emanating from Geralt's skin, realising that he hadn't touched Geralt since he had washed his hair in the bathhouse and afterwards tended to the wounds. Jaskier knew himself as a tactile person, but he hadn't realised how hungry for touch his skin already was before this moment, when even the slight brush of fingertips over his hands felt so good. With some effort he pushed the feeling aside, not having time to deal with it for the moment.

It was a quick thing to wrap up Jaskier's right hand, but when Geralt was done he loosened the bandage again and handed it to Jaskier, proceeding to explain properly and thoroughly how it was to be done so Jaskier could repeat the process himself. When he had figured it out and both of his hands were wrapped Jaskier tried his range of movement, finding he could still curl his fingers into a fist, his knuckles nicely protected from damage and accidental bruises now. 

He looked up to find Geralt's attention resting calmly on him, kneeling close on the floor. It was the first moment they were sharing since what to Jaskier felt like a very long time, and he didn't want it to pass, aching to reach out again. 

"Thank you. Where did you get those?"

Geralt nodded, not moving and apparently not feeling uncomfortable. 

"Usually they are for Roach. But I washed them properly."

Snorting Jaskier shook his head.

"Should have thought so. I've never seen you wrap your hands. Did you do it here when you were young?"

Raising an eyebrow Geralt curled his hands to fists, holding his calloused knuckles and hardened skin out for Jaskier to see, the small scar over two knuckles on the left hand a fine white line on his skin. Briefly Jaskier remembered the figure of him punching the wall and showing no sign of pain. Geralt's voice interrupted his musings quickly.

"No, we had to harden up." 

He dropped his hands back on his knees. He still looked tired, and briefly Jaskier wondered if he was supposed to apologise for interrupting his evening with Eskel last night. But Geralt continued before he could say anything. 

"But you don't. You need your hands for your music."

He said it quietly, and for a brief moment Jaskier felt the warmth in his stomach and smiled. Fleetingly he watched the amber of Geralt's eyes turn warm, as if he was trying to smile back but couldn't, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. Searching for words Jaskier took a breath, ready to say something that could break the strange coldness that had settled between them, and opened his mouth. He was interrupted before the words got out, Eskel slapping his shoulder and pulling him up, admiring his neatly wrapped hands and nodding at Geralt with approval of his idea. And before Jaskier knew it he was back listening to Eskel's instructions, block blows with now comfortably protected hands, out of the corner of his eyes watching Geralt rise from the ground and walk over to join Vesemir. 

That brief, fleeting understanding remained the only conversation Jaskier managed to have with Geralt for the next days. Once more Geralt retreated into the solitude he wore like a thick cloak, silent and brooding, keeping his distance not only from Jaskier but also from everyone else. 

They only were close on the rare occasions when he trained with Jaskier, and it always worked out very well, their movements falling easily into synch, adjusting to each other quietly. It just happened, as if their bodies were still in tune after years of travelling together, all the miles and miles they had spent on the road walking next to each other. Geralt was careful, adjusting his speed and strength around Jaskier, but not pulling his punches. Once or twice Jaskier was too slow to duck or block, and just like Eskel would hit him Geralt did, too, albeit only with a fraction of his actual strength. Still the impact hurt and sometimes made Jaskier lose his balance, and he found himself on the ground rubbing whatever body part Geralt had caught him in, frowning and accepting the hand offered ot help him back to his feet. He only nodded at the silent question whether he was alright, knowing he'd tend to his bruises in private later, not willing to admit he was hurt if it was something as mundane as a little blue skin. 

And all the time Vesemir was watching them from the sidelines, giving corrections or advice, leaning at the wall and observing. He watched Eskel and Coën teach Jaskier, he watched the others spar, but it quickly became obvious for Jaskier that he was mostly watching Geralt, silently and as if he was seizing him up, judging what he was seeing, always finding something he could have done better. It made Jaskier wonder if it was what Vesemir did or if it was tied to what Jaskier had now learnt about Geralt - that he was an experiment, that they still weren't sure about it. Vesemir's gaze wasn't unfavourable, but there was no warmth or friendliness in there. Instead it measured, took note, scrutinised without mercy or love. 

And the storm continued to howl. It took a few days, but then Jaskier finally understood that this and not the snow was the siege they had prepared for with their overflowing pantry and the frantic improvements to the fortress. The enemy wasn't white and heavy but came with long fingers tearing at the stones, beating on the few remaining intact windows, bringing cold gusts of wind and icy rainfall. It also tore on Jaskier's nerves. He was restless and tired at the same time, barely able to sit still and tired on his feet whenever he walked. 

But he walked, not every day but often enough, whenever his mind couldn't endure sitting in the library or whiling the hours away in his room anymore. It wasn't that he didn't like the library hours, or the afternoons he spent plucking his lute and working on that siren song. But his mind couldn't focus on the books, couldn't make sense of the rhymes. It was as if something kept pulling and pushing him, something unseen, without mercy, strong like the wind outside.

He kept on seeing the shadows of Geralt and Eskel on these walks, still easy to tell apart from their actual living counterparts even though they were now wearing familiar swords on their backs, medallions showing the wolf head dangling from their necks. They seemed to adjust to their new bodies, slowly but surely. But Geralt's hair was still brown, growing longer until it reached his shoulders, and Jaskier slowly worried about what else he would see, and when.

The tiredness in Jaskier's bones became heavier by the day. He noticed he was starting to lose his appetite, sitting in the kitchen stirring his kasha without having any desire to eat it, sometimes looking at dinner and wondering how he should finish his plate. He was out of breath faster, sitting down more often during sparring sessions, preferring to watch instead of fighting himself. 

It worried Eskel immediately, and Jaskier promised he'd eat more and sleep more, and he ate less and slept terribly. And there was always someone watching him - Vesemir when his eyes were not fixed on Geralt, Eskel when he was thinking Jaskier didn't notice and sometimes, more covertly than the others, Geralt. And Jaskier knew he was watching him now, the bandages having been a dead give-away that despite the fact that he had ostensibly distanced himself from Jaskier he was still taking note, still carefully keeping his eyes on him. 

Once or twice Jaskier tried to speak to him but his courage always drained away when they were standing opposite each other, and nothing but a vague comment came over his lips. There were nights when Jaskier was almost brave enough to venture down the few steps, knock on Geralt's door and walk in. In his mind he decided he'd sit in the armchair and simply talk to Geralt, like they did when they were travelling, like they always had done. And if talking wouldn't work he'd simply climb into bed with him, share a mattress and some air for a moment, not necessarily touching or maybe just a little, simply being present together instead of separated by cool stone walls and silence. But he never actually got up, never found the courage. 

And then Jaskier woke up and decided to ignore the storm from now on. He dressed properly and forced a spring in his step as he walked down towards the kitchen. He spent the morning with easy exercises to train his sense of balance and coordination that seemed absolutely nonsensical to him - why was he supposed to raise his arms in various movements, trying to do separate things with his right and left arm? What point was there in repeating a sequence of easy jumps from one leg to the other until he got confused and made a mistake? And why was Coën making him stand on one leg while was throwing apples at him Jaskier had to catch? - but Eskel and Coën seemed to enjoy them, and Jaskier was never one to turn down a good bit of fun. It got better when afterwards Eskel blindfolded himself and Jaskier got to throw things at him, although it was slightly disappointing to watch him catch everything. Coën, of course, could jump into a somersault and pick the apples out of the air while he was at it, but by then Jaskier was used to the flying tricks the griffin could perform and didn't need to gape anymore, or at least not more than Lambert and Eskel did. 

At lunch they met Geralt who came from the stables and reported that the horses were doing well, and afterwards Jaskier sat in the library with Coën for a while, reading a large, dusty book on dragons Coën had recommended and whiled a few hours away. 

Darkness fell quickly, and Jaskier decided to spare his eyes the strain and left the library, not without making Coën promise they'd talk about dragons the next day in depth, since they were a field of speciality to the School of the Griffin, and Coën knew a lot more about them then Jaskier or even the wolf witchers did. 

It was almost dark outside, despite it being only early evening when Jaskier climbed the stairs to his room. He wanted to have a bit of a lie down, feeling as if he'd get the first good nap in days if he just took the opportunity now. Then he passed by the second level of the keep and felt the pull. For a moment he was annoyed. It wasn't the best moment, he wasn't in the mood, wanting to rest instead of watching another memory unfold in front of his eyes. 

But the feeling got stronger, and finally he succumbed. Following the pull he climbed another staircase, walked down the abandoned corridor and found himself in one of the smaller rooms on that level. It was dark now, the storm outside still howling, never ceasing from its hungry grasping at the old stones of Kaer Morhen. 

Shuddering in the cold Jaskier stood in the door frame for a moment, looking at the skeletons of the remaining furniture in the dark, angry at himself for having come up here when he had wanted to be somewhere else entirely. Then he blinked, and it was day. 

The room looked like most of the bedrooms in Kaer Morhen now, the familiar furniture, a bed and an armchair, a fireplace, a chest with belongings in a corner, a table with a washing bowl and a jug of clear water. In front of the window stood Eskel, dressed as usual but unarmed, medallion around his neck, still a young witcher. But he looked tired, worried, and Jaskier wasn't watching him for long when he started pacing, arms crossed in front of his chest. His lips were pressed together in a thin line, a frown on his face, eyes shadowed by something that Jaskier couldn't really place. 

Then there was a commotion in the corridor outside. Jaskier heard steps, at least two, maybe three people walking. Eskel stopped immediately, looking up, the worry on his face intensifying. Suddenly he was nervous, the signs subtle but there. There were voices outside now, coming closer. 

"You can't do that! It's against protocol!"

Jaskier didn't know the voice, pitched slightly higher than most of the witcher's voices, pristine vowels pointing towards an education Kaer Morhen didn't offer. 

"With all due respect, Master Zenob, I will do whatever I wish."

Vesemir's voice was barely above a growl, the contempt clearly audible. Jaskier watched Eskel's eyes widen ever so slightly, something like hope in his face. 

"No, you don't understand. He needs to go into the darkness, it's essential at this point - "

The mage's voice was almost squealing as it climbed higher in his agitation. But Vesemir was unbothered. 

"On the contrary, I fully understand. And I don't care. You had your chance, now he's mine again and I won't have him die alone in the dark."

Eskel suddenly looked like someone had punched him in the gut, all hope gone again. Then the door was thrown open and Vesemir stalked into the room, followed by the two mages Jaskier had seen before. They were aflutter in excitement, but Vesemir's face was set into a stony mask, his eyes hard. He crossed the room and deposited the motionless body he was carrying on the bed. 

Together with Eskel Jaskier moved forward to get a better view and immediately wished he hadn't. Eskel apparently shared the same feeling, turning pale. 

On the bed, draped like a rag doll the way Vesemir had put him down, lay Geralt. It was almost a repetition of the memory Jaskier had witnessed in the basement, but with a few dreadful twists. He was dressed in much the same way as he always was, and just like it had been in the basement his clothing was torn in places, his body covered in blood, dried and fresh. But the injuries were different now, varying in placement and size. Now his wrists were bleeding, skin gone over the raw flesh with large indentations that looked like he had been chained and torn at the cuffs with such strength that the metal had embedded itself into his body, having been pulled out only very recently. He wasn't wearing a medallion, and Jaskier could see his skin having burst or ripped on his chest, gashes covered by the blood-soaked shirt. Blindfolded just like he had been the first time there was fresh blood running from his lips, and over his cheeks from underneath the blindfold, already dried on his face, thick dark streaks of brown and dark red. His hair under the blindfold was stuck to his skull, dirty and bloodied, silver white under the grime and sweat. 

But the worst was the breathing. It was obvious that something had gone terribly wrong during the trials, and Jaskier didn't need to look at the blood to know. He heard it, in every pained gasp that was supposed to be a breath, blood continuously on Geralt's lips. His lungs weren't functioning properly, and it was painfully clear what Vesemir had meant when he had spoken about impending death. 

Jaskier stood and stared in shock, and Eskel apparently was just as incapable of moving. It was Vesemir who rearranged the battered body on the bed, collecting pillows, carefully lifting Geralt so that his head and upper body were slightly elevated, enabling him to breathe just a little easier. 

The mages continued their discussion completely untouched by the gruesome spectacle. 

"His senses will be permanently ruined! Only sufficient rest in the darkness can help him adjust, you will see that this is a mistake."

Growling Vesemir turned around after having carefully arranged the pillows, his face full of contempt. 

"We will discuss that outside." 

He cast a glance at Eskel.

"Stay here."

Then he herded the mages out of the room, not bothering to close the door. Jaskier could hear the discussion outside easily, interrupted by the occasional pained, rattling gasp from Geralt. The mages didn't miss a beat. 

"Three days in the dark, Vesemir, and you'll see."

Growling Vesemir sounded like he'd like to spit on the ground. 

"Two and no more. And he won't go into the dark, he'll stay blindfolded in here."

There was a short pause and then the mage replied. 

"Three days, that's what we agreed upon. You must hold your part of the agreement, witcher. You know you must."

He sounded bold, putting his foot down and Jaskier knew immediately that Vesemir would bow to him. He didn't catch the reply, but then Vesemir reappeared, slamming the door shut behind him with more force than strictly necessary. He stood there for a moment, observing the room, Geralt frantically trying to breathe without really being able to, Eskel still staring in disbelief. 

"Right. You understand why you're here?"

Eskel nodded, but he didn't seem convinced. Vesemir stalked over to the bed, looking down. Jaskier knew for sure that there was no possibility of him feeling any emotion, and yet he thought for a moment that there was something on his face - regret, maybe? 

"You heard what they said. We will have to wait for three days." He shook his head. "Useless suffering." 

Then he pulled a slim blade from his belt, and threw it towards Eskel, who caught it easily. Turning the long, slim dagger in his hand he pulled it free from its elaborate sheath, the sharp blade glinting in the light.

"You're not telling me - " He looked at Vesemir, who raised an eyebrow, and back down at the dagger again. 

"I'm not going to put a silver dagger through his heart."

He sounded determined and disgusted at the same time, but Vesemir wasn't moved. 

"You're a witcher, Eskel. Do your job. I'll show you how it works, it's not difficult."

Eskel's hands tightened around the blade, knuckles whitening. Quickly he sheathed the dagger and threw it back at Vesemir, who picked it out of the air. There was a hint of compassion on his face that vanished quickly again, and he shook his head. 

"I didn't know you were so thin-skinned." Jaskier thought he sounded disappointed, just a little. 

"But you don't have to worry, he won't make it that far. Three days is a long time with injuries like this." 

He placed the dagger on the little table next to the bed. Then he reached into his pocket, taking out a handful of silver and depositing the medallion next to the blade. 

Looking back at Eskel he nodded. 

"Well, you can stay here. If you want to you can bandage his wrists and clean him a bit, but it's pointless anyway. He's been coughing blood for days now." 

He turned halfway. 

"Call me when it's over. But should he wake and beg for death don't give in. Remember we have to wait for three days, it's part of the agreement."

Stalking over to the door he was almost gone when Eskel spoke. 

"Why silver?"

Already in the door frame Vesemir turned around. He looked at Geralt on the bed, who gasped for air at that moment and coughed, blood appearing on his lips. Then he shook his head slowly. 

"Because steel would no longer work."

And with that he was gone, leaving Eskel alone and Jaskier standing there, trying to comprehend what he was seeing, what he had just heard. Geralt on the bed continued to try to breathe, every inhale an exercise in pain, his otherwise unmoving body shuddering with the sheer effort. 

For the first time since Jaskier had started to see the ghosts he turned away from the scene in front of him. It was too much, he couldn't stand it anymore. Even when he knew how it was ending, that Geralt would survive this moment, that Eskel wouldn't have to put a silver blade through his heart it was more than Jaskier could bear. He felt himself shiver, his hands suddenly trembling, not only from the cold air in the room but also from the sheer power of his emotions. 

He shook his head to try and clear his mind, but it didn't work. Realistically he knew he was standing in a broken room in an abandoned part of the keep, that they were in the depth of winter and nothing he was seeing was real anymore. And yet around him the autumn light was filtering through the intact window panes, the warmth of a summer slowly fading out in the air. He heard Eskel move, but worst of all he heard the dreadful coughing and rattling gasps, every desperate attempt at breathing Geralt made. 

Was there nothing he could do to stop seeing these things? 

Taking a deep breath himself, feeling his lungs work perfectly in the most reassuring manner he steeled himself. He'd have to walk out of the room to stop it, and he was prepared to do so. But when he turned around the scenery had shifted. The light outside was different, as if time had passed between the first moment and the memory he was seeing now. Eskel was gone, the room empty besides Geralt lying on the bed, still blindfolded, head on the pillows. But he looked better than he had before, most of the blood having been cleaned from his face and neck, his wrists neatly bandaged. And he was breathing more calmly, no longer gasping for air like a fish pulled from the water, his chest rising and falling more regularly. 

Surprised Jaskier stood and stared, wondering why he was seeing this, for the moment abandoning his intention to leave. The scene was much more peaceful, reassuring. But before he could come to a conclusion Geralt stirred. 

He came to consciousness with a start, suddenly flinching, sitting half-way upright as if he had been pulled from a nightmare. Falling back into the pillows immediately again he groaned silently, and coughed to clear his throat. Even with the blindfold Jaskier could see him frown, and his hands went up first to wipe the blood from his lips and then touch the blindfold. With unsteady fingers he pulled on it a little, then found the knot at the back of his head and tried to untie it. It took him a little while, but then it opened and he could pull the piece of cloth from his face. Immediately he growled and covered his eyes with his hands, cursing under his breath in a barely audibly voice. 

Fascinated Jaskier watched him, having already forgotten his intention to leave the room. Instead he stood like he was rooted to the ground, staring as Geralt slowly dropped his hands from his face, and carefully started to move, sitting up at a glacial pace, moving as if he didn't know for sure how his body was supposed to work and needing a while to figure out if he could still command his limbs to move at his will. 

And yet as soon as he had realised that he could he moved with more determination. He stretched his arms and back, rolling his shoulders, wincing at every little movement but continuing nevertheless. Undoing the bandages around his wrists he tried to move his hands, rubbing the skin that had already closed over the injuries, leaving barely a trace of what had been raw and bloodied flesh. Elbows on his knees he again rubbed his face, covering his eyes with his hands, exhaling deeply, his head hanging low. It was obvious that the light was painful in his eyes, that every movement hurt, that breathing was still not coming naturally to him. And yet he didn't lie back down, remaining sitting, gathering strength to stand up. 

Finally he dropped his hands, sitting up a little taller again, and in a movement that seemed to be automatic tucked his long hair behind his ears, combing through it with his fingers. It was then he realised it wasn't dark anymore. Stiffening he stared at the dirty silver white strand he held in his hand, gathering more of it and pulling roughly to see more easily. Thunderstruck he sat for a moment, apparently incapable of comprehending what had happened. Then he stood up, with sudden determination Jaskier wouldn't have thought him capable of. He regretted it immediately, apparently feeling dizzy and staggering a little, needing the wall next to the window for support. But after leaning against it for a moment, forcefully controlling his breathing to remain upright and conscious, he moved through the room, stiffly and without any grace, towards the table where the washing bowl sat and a little very cloudy mirror was hanging on the wall. 

Using the table the bowl sat on for support he leant forward, staring at the mirror in a mixture of disbelief and horror. He was still frowning in the light of the autumn day, but it seemed that the need to figure out what he was looking at was stronger than the pain from the light in his sensitive eyes. Keeping one hand on the table to steady himself he brushed the other one through his matted hair, darkened by the dirt and blood and yet the improbable silver white he'd still be known for decades later. 

Right now it seemed he wasn't enamoured with the scenario. He was frowning at himself, deep lines on his exhausted face. Then he cursed, low under his breath, with a sigh exhaling and dropping his painfully tense shoulders. 

"Fuck."

His voice was low and hoarse, suddenly much more familiar than it had been before in all the versions of Geralt Jaskier had seen in the past weeks. Dropping the hand he had carded through his hair he looked down in defeat, suddenly realising how dirty his clothing and by extension he himself was. As always preferring to do something, anything, instead of standing around he started to strip himself of what remained of his shirt and breeches, picking a rag up when he was done and using the water in the washing bowl gave himself a swift and none too gentle cleaning. It also gave Jaskier the opportunity to admire Geralt without a single scar to his body, a scenario he couldn't have imagined before that moment. He looked strange like this, with unmarred skin, the many stories that would later shape him into the man Jaskier knew not yet carved into his body. 

When he was done, the rag bloodied and the water in the bowl dark he turned towards a chest sitting next to the table with the washing bowl, opening and bending over it. Quick movements apparently still made him dizzy, and he needed to brace himself against the wall for a moment. But he succeeded in keeping his wits about him, rummaging through the chest and finding fresh clothing. He picked breeches and a clean undershirt from a whole stack of them, all worn but neatly folded, and dressed quickly. It was only when he returned the stack that Jaskier thought he saw a glimpse of cerulean blue from the very bottom of it, tucked away neatly. But it was gone quickly enough, and he could have been mistaken. It could have been the light. 

Finally Geralt was dressed, having brushed his fingers through his hair without looking into the mirror again. Standing around in the room for a moment while obviously having no idea how he wanted to proceed he returned to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it for a moment. He looked at the bloody mess the sheets he had been lying on for at least a few days were, then at his hands, and up again. Then the little bedside table caught his eye. Reaching out he picked the medallion up, the silver chain glimmering in his hands. 

With fascination Jaskier watched his unguarded face as he looked at it, turning the wolf head between his fingers, brushing a thumb over the raised image, the chain dangling from his hands. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, looking at the medallion as if he'd never seen it before. With his head tipped forward lightly his still loose hair was again hanging around his face, a stark reminder of what had happened that couldn't be ignored. Briefly he hesitated, but then shook himself out of his stupor and with still unsteady hands placed the medallion around his neck. It fell into the folds of his shirt, right where it belonged and Jaskier had seen it every day ever since he had met Geralt for the first time all those years ago. 

Done with closing the clasp Geralt let his hands drop, and turned to examine the dagger, picking it up, turning the beautifully worked sheath between his hands. The blade slid out of it easily, gleaming in the autumn light like the medallion had, the silver perfectly polished. The message was impossible to misunderstand, and it was obvious that Geralt knew exactly why it was there, what purpose it had been supposed to serve. It didn't seem to shock him, or maybe he was already so overwhelmed by the entire scenario that this little detail wasn't going to do more damage. 

Silently he turned the blade in his hands with all the expertise of someone used to handle weapons, capable of admiring the fine quality of the dagger as a tool, the craftsmanship that had gone into making it, the effort of keeping it in such pristine condition. The silver was perfectly untarnished, catching the light of the autumn sun. 

Finally he resheathed the blade, but he didn't replace it onto the table. Examining the ornamental decorations on the sheath, uncommon in witcher weapons as far as Jaskier knew he kept it in his hands for a while longer, reluctant to let go of it. 

His focus was interrupted by something Jaskier only heard moments later, Geralt having already raised his head and slowly gotten up from where he had been sitting. There were steps on the corridor, voices, and the door to the room opened. Suddenly the room was filled with people, Vesemir and Eskel, the older witcher Jaskier had seen in the basement, and the two mages. They marched into the room with determination, stopping suddenly and crowding besides the door when they realised the bed was empty. Geralt had retreated towards the back of the room, still holding the dagger loosely in his hands, but otherwise simply standing there. There was a hint of nervousness on him that was gone before it could settle, but Jaskier easily picked up on the fact that he needed most of his concentration to remain upright. Still he stood as tall as he could, shoulders down and pulled back, chin slightly lifted in defiance, frowning against the light. 

It was enough to stop the sudden visitors in their tracks. Nobody said anything for the moment, because nobody had anticipated to see Geralt upright, or even alive. It was a pleasure to see them gape, the surprise on their faces, even Vesemir being thrown off guard. Only Eskel seemed relieved, standing at the back of the group, the lines in his face slowly smoothing out, his frown making way for a small smile. 

But even that was nothing compared to the glee that took over the mage. He seemed short of punching the air, an unsettling grin on his thin face. Excitedly he pushed the glasses up his nose and immediately again when they wouldn't stay, rubbing his hands together, pushing the sleeves of his long green robes up and down again. 

"What have I said, Vesemir, and did you believe me? No, you did not. But now you can't deny I was right all along. Three days and now he's fine."

He shot forwards, towards where Geralt stood, and started to circle him, fluttering like a nervous bird. Still leaving space between them he walked around him once, the contrast between the perfect silence in which Geralt stood and the fidgeting of the little mage striking. 

"And mostly intact, though we will of course have to conduct a few tests to see about that, won't we, Folmar? Extended tests, yes, but so far I'm satisfied." 

Worried Jaskier watched how the mage circled closer to Geralt, completely ignorant of the fact that the tension in Geralt's body was slowly building, the frown on his face deepening. 

"The hair is unfortunate, but alas, mistakes happen. If that's the worst I'd say it was a success."

The mage stopped next to Geralt, reaching out to touch his hair to emphasise his words. Jaskier already knew that this was a mistake. With a speed the mage had not anticipated Geralt caught the hand before it ever reached his hair, forcing it down again. The mage squealed in shock at the sudden movement and the pain from the iron grip.

"Don't touch me."

Geralt's voice was so hoarse it was barely audible, but it didn't lack conviction. Pushing the mage away with nothing more than a light shove he let go of him, sending the small man staggering backwards. Apparently not used to being manhandled the mage stumbled over his own feet and the hem of his robes and fell, ending up on the floor sitting on his behind. He stared up in surprise, apparently having been incapable of imagining his experiment to suddenly turn on him. 

The other mage made moves to walk forward, but it was obvious that he wasn't keen on getting anywhere near Geralt when he had just aptly demonstrated that he didn't appreciate it. The witchers were mostly unmoved, though Vesemir didn't look as if he was worried too much about the mage sitting on the floor with his robes pooling around him. Eskel was grinning a little.

In the meantime Geralt looked at the mage sitting on his bum and then at the assembled witchers standing before him. Exhaling carefully he closed his eyes briefly, the frown on his face deepening. But apparently he came to a decision how he wanted to proceed in that short moment of focus. Opening his eyes again he set himself into motion, walking over towards the door, steps careful and still a little unsteady. His breathing seemed a little more laboured now, as if keeping upright had been exhausting and he needed to rest again. 

He stopped just before Vesemir, a little too close for comfort, and for a moment they just looked at each other, Vesemir taking his time to measure what he was seeing, as always unmoved. Then Geralt held the dagger out for him, and Vesemir slowly took it from his hands. 

"Maybe try steel next time."

Vesemir didn't answer, only tilting his head slightly, gaze calmly fixed on Geralt. They stared at each other for a moment longer before Geralt turned away. Passing by the group staring at him he left the room without looking back, and Jaskier could listen to his steps vanishing through the corridor. 

As soon as he was gone the memories faded, the light slowly dying away, leaving Jaskier to stand in the dark and empty room once more. His heart was beating fast in his chest and he felt tired beyond measure. He had no concept of how much time had passed, but when he finally managed to force his body to leave the room, climb back through the abandoned corridor and take the staircase down he noticed how cold he was, how his head was a dizzy with the onslaught of images. 

He had almost reached the lower levels when the dizziness became too much to bear. Instead of continuing his walk down he decided to take a little rest, and sat on the stairs, resting his pounding head on his hands, elbows on his knees. Focusing on his breathing he willed the dizziness and headache away, but to no avail. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw the gruesome images of the last encounter on front of him, the blood on the white sheets, the examining glare of the mage. It left his head spinning, his thoughts fraying at the edges. 

Focusing on his breathing he almost didn't notice the steps coming up the stairs. For a second he thought it was another memory, and tensing up he prepared for another wave of emotional horror. But when the person in question appeared it wasn't a shadowy figure but Lambert, frowning at Jaskier sitting crouched on the staircase. 

"Bard, what's this? What are you doing here?"

He sounded incredulous, but underneath the impatience that seemed to be one of his main characteristics there was a hint of worry. Looking up Jaskier exhaled with relief at finding him real, flesh and blood, even if it was annoyed flesh and cool blood. 

"Sorry. Felt a bit dizzy."

To Jaskier's surprise Lambert knelt down next to him, looking at him properly. 

"You're trembling. What is happening? We were wondering when you didn't appear for dinner."

Blinking Jaskier looked at him, the short scar on his forehead, slightly yellow-tinged eyes warm in the light of the flickering torches, pupils wide in the semi-darkness. He was dressed warmly, his woollen tunic belted around his waist, the silver chain of the medallion barely visible and glinting in the dim light, looking for once so painfully normal that Jaskier had to fight the sudden and absolutely idiotic impulse to reach out and touch him just to see if his hands would find actual flesh instead of air.

"Headache. I'll be good in a moment."

Lambert didn't look convinced. 

"Doesn't look like it. Seen a ghost?"

Blinking Jaskier looked at him, and decided to throw all caution in the wind. 

"Actually I have. Why didn't anybody tell me the keep is haunted?"

Apparently Lambert hadn't expected that answer and the frown on his face deepened.

"What are you talking about? Kaer Morhen hasn't been haunted for a while, we got rid of the last wraiths years ago. Did you see something?"

Confused Jaskier stared at him. 

"No wraiths, ghosts. Even I know there's a difference."

And he knew there was, because Jaskier had seen wraiths before and knew how they had to be killed after a lengthy sojourn at a cemetery where Geralt had cleaned up a whole nest of them a few years ago. But those had been noticeably different from the ghosts he was seeing now, the wraiths nothing but dim shadows of rage and hurt that had been circling the air, tied to the corpses, bound to this plane of existence forever lest they be saved by someone who knew how to take care of them and cut them free from their former bodies. Jaskier remembered the uncomfortable work of digging up the corpses to find the blood on their lips indicating their ties to the wraiths, how they had to be dismembered, burnt on a pyre that set off a horrible sweet smell Jaskier didn't get out of his clothes and mind for weeks afterwards.

But Lambert shook his head. 

"There's all sorts of spectres around, but none at Kaer Morhen. What do you think of us, Bard? That we're a collection of witchers who can't keep their own fortress clean? There might be a few more wraiths around the outer courtyards, but I haven't seen one in years. Eskel took the last ones down, you should ask him."

He scrutinised Jaskier, and then sat back on his heels, balancing precariously on the stairs. 

"What are you seeing, Bard?"

Passing a hand over his face Jaskier raced through his options. But he was so tired, so dizzy that all he wanted to do was to go to bed, and not describe his companions of late in a lengthy conversation to Lambert, of all people. 

"Shadows, I guess. No, it must be the torches. I'm just so tired, maybe I should go to bed."

Lambert didn't seem convinced, but Jaskier used the ruse to stand up, slowly picking himself up from the stairs. Rising with considerably more grace Lambert watched him with suspicion in his eyes, and then trailed after him while Jaskier staggered towards his room, obviously wanting to help in case Jaskier would need it but only succeeding in looking like a bird of prey waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It left Jaskier happy to close his door behind him when he had reached his room, stumbling towards his bed and falling into the sheets without bothering to do more than kick his boots off. His dreams were chaotic and painful, but there were no definite images there, only feelings and shadows, mixed in with the screams of the wraiths from that cemetery many years ago. 

The next morning the storm was still there, as was Jaskier's headache. Still he forced himself out of bed, on a whim dressed in the cerulean tunic in a hopeless attempt to cheer himself up and stumbled into the day. His main concern, namely that Lambert had spoken to the others about what had happened on the stairs last night, seemed unfounded. 

But the weakness didn't leave him. Instead of sparring he excused himself, sitting on the sidelines and watching instead of participating. It gave the others time to indulge in a new variation of their violent games, set into motion by Vesemir handing Geralt a blindfold. Jaskier had watched them spar blindfolded before, a good way to train their senses that they used especially when sparring outside or using the infernal machine Jaskier was so in awe of. The variety Vesemir suggested now was simple and consisted in the easiest possible setup where one fighter stood blindfolded in the centre of the room and could be engaged by everyone with a variety of weapons. The exchanges started slowly consisting of one blow and one parry, step by step becoming more drawn-out skirmishes, lasting like most of their brutal training fights until the first attacker managed to draw blood.

Apparently that particular version of everybody-against-one was of particular amusement to everybody involved, and even Vesemir participated eagerly. Eskel had offered Jaskier a sword and the chance to attack himself, but he had declined. Instead he sat on the ground, watching Geralt fight off the various attacks with tight concentration and precise parries, the blindfold over his head painfully reminding Jaskier of the memory he had suffered through the previous day. It plunged him into a swirl of emotions that was so intense he lost focus on the present, the clang of steel on steel or the blocked kicks and punches slowly drowning out as he sank deeper into his musings.

He was so lost in thought he barely noticed how the game picked up speed. Where they before had attacked one by one they now teamed up, and it was finally Eskel who managed to land a hit with his sword, cutting into the forearm Geralt had used to parry his attack while he was busy fending Lambert off with his sword. Eskel's blade was sharp, and Vesemir called the hit and ended the game. It pulled Jaskier from his stupor, and he watched Geralt pull the blindfold off and shake hands with Eskel, Vesemir already commenting on the idiocy of blocking a sword blow with bare skin while Lambert and Coën retreated to the other side of the room to start their own sparring session, the sound of metal on metal in the air quickly. 

Geralt seemed annoyed at having been hit at all and not particularly at the slash across his forearm, despite the fact that he was dripping blood onto the floor already. But he was defending his move to Vesemir while Eskel rummaged through a small chest sitting on one side of the room, returning with a clean rag and pressing it into Geralt's hands. Then he joined the conversation with Vesemir, which slowly developed into them going through movements of parry and ended with Eskel and Vesemir sparring while Geralt remained busy pressing the clean cloth against the bleeding cut. 

Finally turning away he noticed Jaskier's eyes on him and walked over to join him on the ground. Blood had already run over his hands, slowly drying on his skin, smeared from where he had wiped at it with the cloth. 

"Doesn't that hurt?"

Nodding at the injury Jaskier tried to pull himself back to reality, pushing the images from the memory back. Geralt shrugged, but his eyes were focused on Jaskier, a hint of worry in his face. 

"It will heal quickly." Then he raised an eyebrow, sudden dry humour lightning his eyes in a painfully familiar way. 

"And before you consider me an idiot like Vesemir does let me tell you that Eskel wouldn't have cut me with a hit like that if he hadn't expected my movement and angled his blade, the bastard. Nothing's as dangerous as fighting someone who knows you well."

Jaskier tried a smile, but failed terribly. He was suddenly tired again, despite having done nothing all day long but to sit around. 

"Are you alright?"

Geralt was still looking at him, suddenly worried, and Jaskier realised that Lambert must have spoken to him. Nothing else explained the sudden attention after Geralt had more or less ignored him for weeks now. For a moment he considered saying the truth, but he was too exhausted to do so. Instead he only nodded, and held out his hands. 

"Let me tie the cloth around your arm, it'll be more comfortable."

Geralt surrendered his arm and the cloth to Jaskier's gentle hands without a word of complaint. But the entire time Jaskier was busy wrapping the cloth around his forearm, securing it with a tight proper knot he kept his eyes on him, looking not at what was happening to the wound but at Jaskier's face. There was worry in his eyes, but also something else Jaskier couldn't quite place. 

"Thank you."

Done with the wrapping Jaskier pulled his hands back, despite the sudden impulse to just let them rest on Geralt's arm that for a moment was so overwhelming it threatened to pull him under. Placing his slightly trembling hands on his own knees he turned away, instead looking at Lambert and Coën sparring on the other side of the room. Outside the wind was howling, and in the distance Jaskier could hear the grumbling of another avalanche coming down the mountains, covering the landscape in masses of heavy, white snow like a burial shroud. 

From that moment on Jaskier felt the restlessness tear at him again, in a strange and completely nonsensical fight against the lead in his limbs. His head continued to be slightly dizzy, his appetite gone for good. He briefly dawdled around the kitchen, picking at a little lunch, but then retreated to his room. But the dizziness wouldn't leave him, no matter if he sat down or paced his room. He could barely think, feeling drained and empty, a feeling he wasn't accustomed to. He knew himself as a steady, cheerful person, not a sulking heap of silent yearning and fear, and it was maybe this that frightened him most. 

The sudden change was out of character, and if there was one thing Jaskier had always been able to count on it was the fact that he knew himself, inside out, having spent years with reflecting on what he was, who he wanted to be and how he could get there. He knew the backdoors and hidden corridors of his soul with the same sureness with which Geralt knew his body and how his sword lay in his hands, years of introspection having made him acquainted with his entire personality down to its darkest depth. 

But now he was slowly becoming unfamiliar to himself. Outside it was dark again, and Jaskier cursed at the wasted day, giving himself a mental shove and kick and left his room. His stomach was growling and he wanted to go down to the kitchen, to find something to eat and then cheer himself up in the library where there would be a large fire and company to take his mind off things. And then he'd play his lute this night, and music always solved almost everything, ghosts be damned. 

So he marched down the stairs, steadfast and convinced of his own prowess, towards the kitchen. He had reached the entrance hall when he felt the shiver down his spine and the pull of the ghosts. It stopped him in his tracks, vigour suddenly gone, fear tingling at the base of his spine. Suddenly the restlessness threatened to come back, the worry and the lead in his limbs, and he felt his heartbeat quickening. 

Then determination kicked in. He wasn't going to succumb, not now, not anymore. He was done with those ghosts, those awful memories, he didn't want the blood and the fear anymore. Resolutely he turned around, returning to the staircase, for a moment considering to go down towards the kitchen as he had planned. 

But the pull got stronger the further he walked away from it, beckoning him down, towards the basement, an invisible hand on his shoulders. Gritting his teeth he set another foot forwards, and another. Then he stopped, looking over his shoulders. There was the empty entrance hall, the torches flickering in the darkness of the early evening. There was nobody around at this hour, a time when almost everyone was resting in their rooms before dinner and sorting through their personal things, doing little tasks, reading. Lambert was in the kitchen preparing dinner, so nobody would come across Jaskier if he followed the pull towards the basement. Just this time, just once more, what was the worst that could happen?

As if he had no will of his own anymore he turned around, moved as if pulled by those terrible invisible strings, one foot in front of the other. Then he stopped, hands curled into fists, and started to run. 

Seconds later he arrived in front of Geralt's door, knocked on it twice with so much force his knuckles hurt and without waiting for an answer stumbled into the room. 

Geralt kneeled in front of his fireplace on the cold stones, eyes closed, hands on his knees, sleeves of his woollen tunic pushed up, his left arm still wrapped with the cloth. But again he wasn't really sunken into meditation, opening his eyes as Jaskier came staggering into his room. Not bothering to properly close the door behind him Jaskier crossed the room, dropping onto the ground in front of Geralt who stared at him in surprise. Not bothering to explain himself Jaskier leant forward, words tumbling out of him like the avalanches that came down from the mountains around them.

"Listen, things have been strange and for some reason you aren't talking to me, but now, really, you have to. Please."

Geralt blinked, fully returning to the presence, Jaskier's tone immediately alarming him. 

"What's going on?"

Sitting back on his heels Jaskier rubbed his face to try and clear his mind. 

"I have no idea, but I need your help."

That was enough to set Geralt into motion, and when Jaskier dropped his hands he suddenly felt the walls of silence that had appeared out of nowhere between him and Geralt crumble into dust. Without bothering to say anything else he leant forward, took one of Geralt's hands and got up. Pulling Geralt with him, or at least pretending to pull while Geralt followed willingly he turned, marching out of the room, only reluctantly letting go of him when they were out the door.

Outside in the corridor Jaskier felt the by now familiar pull again, a little more subdued but still present. Still he followed it, not waiting to explain himself. Together they hastened down the stairs, their quick steps echoing off the stone walls. 

"Jaskier, what is this? Where are we going?"

Shrugging Jaskier jumped the final two steps down, crossing the entrance hall nearly running. Geralt kept up easily besides him.

"Down. There's something you need to see, or you need to tell me if you see it, or what it is. Just come with me."

Leading Geralt towards the staircase that went down to the basement Jaskier noticed the brief second of hesitation. 

"How do you know the way down?"

There was sudden suspicion in Geralt's voice, and Jaskier finally realised that in all these weeks nobody had noticed his wanderings around the keep. Not slowing down he hastened towards the staircase, and they were already in the first lower corridor when he answered. 

"I'll tell you later." 

Arriving at the top of the final staircase down he looked at Geralt from the side.

"You're not armed, are you?"

Geralt seemed a little taken aback at Jaskier stating the obvious, given that his sword was generally hard to overlook when he carried it given its sheer size and the prominence of its usual place on his back. 

"Should I be?"

Jaskier shrugged, down the first few steps of the final staircase, realising it would be pitch black in the basement without a torch to light the way. 

"Go on down, I'll get one of the torches and join you in a second."

Turning back Jaskier wanted to return upwards, but Geralt caught him by the arm. 

"There's torches on the wall I can light."

Nodding Jaskier stopped, having not even thought about this possibility, and together they descended into total darkness. Halfway down Geralt left him on the staircase while he walked ahead, his steps on the stones the only thing Jaskier heard in the complete and utter darkness. Then one of the torches on the wall came to light with the sign Geralt cast, a soft sphere of fire chasing away the pitch blackness. 

Geralt was already moving towards the other side of the corridor, casting the sign again at the other torch on the opposite wall. Everything looked just like it had last time, the heavy metal doors closed with the exception of the largest one on the far side of the corridor, the light from the torches dancing over the rough stone walls. The air seemed more stale now, moist with hints of mould growing somewhere. 

Slowly turning around once and looking in all directions Geralt seemed to search for something that wasn't there. But there was a tension about him Jaskier was familiar with, the anticipation of a fight rippling through his body, as if he knew something was about to happen but couldn't yet sense from where the attack would come. It reminded Jaskier of the moment when Geralt had warned him to be more careful not too long ago, the same presentiment more visible. His silver white hair gleamed in the flickering light of the torches. 

"What is this all about?"

Jaskier took a few more steps down, slowly descending, waiting with his explanation just a little longer. There was nothing in the corridor right now, but the familiar pull was getting stronger, more intense. It couldn't be long now. 

Strangely enough Geralt didn't seem to be able to stand the silence. He looked to the left and right again, inhaling carefully, the frown on his face deepening as if he could scent something foul besides the slight hint of mould. 

"How did you go down here when we asked you not to? What did you do?"

Jaskier opened his mouth to answer, and there was the familiar shiver, the tingle down his back, and he knew with absolute certainty that if he'd turn around now one of the shadows would appear behind him. 

"Did you - " 

Geralt turned, looked at Jaskier and left his sentence unfinished. His focus instead instantly went to a point behind Jaskier, somewhere above his right shoulder, and with absolutely certainty Jaskier knew that there indeed had to be a shadow, and that Geralt saw it, too. It was too obvious, visible in the sudden stiffening of his posture, the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes. 

But unlike Jaskier he didn't react towards the shadows with curiosity. Instead he took a measured step backwards, and held out a hand. 

"Come here. Don't turn around."

It wasn't a request but a command, leaving no room for discussion or protest. Jaskier had a long time ago learnt that there were certain situations in which he was better off doing what Geralt told him, and that whatever their dynamic was like when they were travelling when battle was imminent it was smart to let Geralt take the lead and guide them out of the hole they had dug themselves in. 

So instead of turning around like he would have done just hours ago Jaskier descended the stairs, walking towards Geralt, crossing through the corridor. The tingle at the base of his spine remained, the shiver that told him that behind him something interesting was happening. And whatever it was, it had the privilege of having Geralt's entire attention focused on it while he was appraising the situation.

But Jaskier simply walked away from it. He was almost within Geralt's reach when he realised that the silence in the corridor was eerie. Usually the shadows had made noise, their feet while they were running or walking, their voices when they were talking and laughing. Now there was nothing he could hear, only his own steps on the stones and his suddenly nervous heartbeat in his ears. That was off, unfamiliar after all these weeks he had spent listening to the voices from the past. It reminded him of something else, and he wondered if what was behind him was a shadow at all, if Geralt was looking at a younger version of himself descending the steps or something different altogether. 

He never got the answer. When he arrived within Geralt's reach he found himself suddenly grasped and roughly pulled forward. Jaskier stumbled and fell against Geralt, who turned halfway and with the motion brought Jaskier out of the line of fire while reaching out with his free hand and casting a sign. Jaskier felt the tingle of magic in the air, but couldn't regain his balance and heavily fell against Geralt, bracing himself against his chest. His right palm hit Geralt in the sternum, not disturbing his motion or hindering him while he twisted, pulling Jaskier away from whatever was moving towards them through the corridor. 

But there was the medallion sitting in its usual place, now right underneath Jaskier's palm as he braced himself, and Jaskier needed a moment to understand where the sudden searing pain in his body came from and then couldn't move with Geralt's free arm wrapped around him. Pressed against Geralt's body he couldn't take his hand away, and the pain from where the silver medallion was resting against his palm made him see stars. He gasped for air, the pain tearing through him, his ears crackling with the magic he felt from Geralt's skin, and lost consciousness.


	11. If the horror / is inside of you / how do you get it out

Jaskier fell into darkness with sudden speed, the waves of unconsciousness closing above him. There was nothing but blackness in his ears and eyes, and he sank deeper and deeper. 

Coming back to the light took long. The dead faint held him in its grasp very much like the sickness had done, and when he awoke first all he felt was the cold sitting in his limbs. He was lying on a bed, a comfortable and familiar one, stretched out, a pillow placed under his head. But he couldn't open his eyes, his eyelids far too heavy and his willpower busy with keeping him afloat above the dark waves. There were voices, and he grasped at them, trying to hold on so they could guide him back towards reality, life, warmth. 

"So you did bring it in from the outside."

He recognised Vesemir's rumbling voice, somewhere from the right, disapproving. Someone was pacing the room, light steps going back and forth, swift and nervous. 

"I couldn't - yes. Fuck. This is my fault."

Vesemir grumbled at Geralt's growled confession, but then another voice chimed in. 

"I don't think I've ever seen anything like this before. What is this?"

Eskel had to be leaning somewhere close to the door, his voice steady and calm as ever. Jaskier tried to blink to see, but the tiredness was too much, pulling him down again. He never heard the reply. 

The next time he resurfaced it had to be later the same night. He still felt terrible, but he came back to consciousness easier this time, his body a little bit lighter. Still he was freezing, and he had to draw a shuddering breath, his gasp loud in the silence of the room. Immediately there was movement by his side. 

"Ah, there he is. Welcome back, songbird. Glad you could join us."

Eskel sounded frightfully chipper, and the edge of the mattress dipped down when he sat. Blinking Jaskier tried to open his eyes and found that his eyelids were lighter now. His vision was still blurred, but his brain a bit less fogged. 

The room was lit by the fire, warm light making the shadows dance across the walls. He was in his own bed, laid out carefully, a blanket draped over his body. His right palm was throbbing with pain under a clean bandage. Groaning he tried to sit up, just a little, but a warm hand on his shoulder stopped him. 

"Keep still a moment longer, you'll just faint again. Let's have a look at you, if you don't mind."

A gentle finger was placed under his chin and Eskel tilted his head so he could see Jaskier's eyes. The strong magic Eskel emanated made Jaskier dizzy again for a moment, a feeling he was not yet used to even after sparring with him for weeks and having necessarily come into contact with his bare skin regularly in this time. He blinked to clear his mind, and Eskel waited patiently before taking a good look at Jaskier's eyes. He was friendly and relaxed as ever, but there was something in his bright eyes Jaskier couldn't quite place.

"Seems good. How do you feel?"

Letting go he sat back again a little, straightening his back. Jaskier briefly considered his options. 

"Like shit. What happened?"

Eskel shrugged, and it was only then that Jaskier realised he was armed, his silver sword sitting on his back. 

"We were hoping you could tell us, actually."

Closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing Jaskier wondered if he could. He hadn't decided yet when the door opened, and he blinked to watch Vesemir and Geralt enter the room. Just like Eskel both were armed, Vesemir carrying his sword on his back, Geralt his in the sheath in his hand. 

"Jaskier."

Geralt seemed genuinely relieved to see him awake, moving swiftly closer to the bed while Vesemir slipped his sword off and sat down in the armchair. He settled back, calmly watching as Jaskier tried to push himself up. There was no space on the bed for Geralt to sit, so he remained standing, watching Jaskier, himself apparently completely unhurt from their encounter with whatever it was they had met in the basement. But he looked tired and unusually worried, the frown apparently now permanently set into his face. 

"How's your hand?"

Confused Jaskier blinked, and then felt the pain more acutely than before. Abandoning his efforts to sit up he instead raised his hand, looking at the bandage. 

"How did I get injured?"

He looked into Eskel's surprised face. Turning slightly he exchanged a glance with Geralt and Vesemir before looking back at Jaskier. 

"You don't remember?"

Shaking his head Jaskier examined his hand more closely, but the bandage was in the way. He pulled at it a little, but the pain quickly stopped his efforts. With a sigh Eskel held his hands out and then proceeded to untie the bandage carefully. When it was gone Jaskier realised why they were asking. On his palm, almost right in the middle sat a round burn mark, the skin blistered and inflamed, an angry red. Moving his fingers Jaskier felt the pull of the taunt injured skin, the pain now far more intense than it had been before. 

Then he remembered how it had happened. That didn't solve the question of why, though. 

"I don't understand. Was that the medallion? Why would it burn me, it's only silver - "

He faltered, looking up, realising that he hadn't seen Geralt's silver sword - or any silver sword, really - for weeks now. That in itself wasn't unusual. He had spent weeks on the path with Geralt without seeing a glimpse of the silver blade, given that it was only required for very specific purposes and Geralt had the habit of keeping it hidden otherwise. He tended to carry his steel blade around on his back wherever he went, but the silver one only came out whenever the monster of the day required its use, and since hearing of Milos' death and how the hunter had sold his silver sword for remarkable profit Jaskier knew that there were reasons for that beyond the mere symbolic power of the blade. 

So it didn't surprise him that they would guard their silver swords carefully, not dragging them out unless necessary. And in Kaer Morhen they hadn't been necessary, not when they used their steel blades for sparring, not when Geralt had easily fought off the wargs using steel instead of silver without any obvious detriment to him. So the last time Jaskier had seen that particular sword had been during his first day in Kaer Morhen, when Geralt had taken it with him to go on whatever his frantic excursion into the mountains had been, killing the harpy with it. 

But now it was back, and somehow Jaskier was deeply unnerved by its reappearance.

"Oh no, that's impossible. How should that have happened? I touched your medallion when we left that infernal village, why should it burn me now?"

Geralt shrugged, apparently not having an answer to that question himself. 

"We don't know. But it makes us wonder."

It was then that Jaskier realised that they weren't armed because of some invisible creature roaming the fortress but because of him. Sitting up further he crawled back a little in bed, leaning against the headboard, still careful not to touch anything with his hurt hand. The pain throbbing there flared up suddenly all the way into his arm and shoulder. 

"That's bullshit, come on." He looked around the room, and the sleeve of his cerulean tunic with its silver embroidery caught his eye.

"There, see, I'm even wearing silver." 

Triumphantly he touched the embroidery on the sleeve, ran his uninjured hand over the patterns on the neckline of the tunic, feeling nothing but the delicately woven decoration under his fingertips, no signs of pain or discomfort. But Geralt only tilted his head, looking almost as if he were pitying Jaskier. 

"Jaskier, that's just very thin tin thread. Did you think a boy from Kaer Morhen would have actual silver on his clothes?"

Suddenly deflated again Jaskier dropped his hand. Swallowing at the growing uneasiness in his stomach he dropped his head against the headboard. 

"Point for you. Still, it can't have been the silver."

Eskel sighed, in a swift motion taking the chain his own medallion was dangling from off and holding it out, the wolf head swinging gently with the motion. 

"Luckily that is easy to prove. Hold your hand out."

Everything in Jaskier told him not to, but he forced his uninjured left hand forwards, opening it, palm up. The medallion dangled from the chain above it before Eskel dropped it. 

But in the very last second Jaskier pulled his hand back without even wanting to, his reflexes strangely fast. The medallion fell onto the blanket, the chain pooling around it. Cradling his left hand to his chest curled into a fist Jaskier stared at it, feeling the completely uncalled for impulse to hiss. Then the fear set in, and he looked up, meeting Geralt's gaze. 

"What happened to me?"

It came out even more frightened than Jaskier had wanted to. Eskel collected his medallion from the blanket and returned it to its rightful place around his neck while Geralt only shrugged. 

"At this point in time you probably know more about this than we do. What have you been doing in the basement? Why did you tell Lambert you were seeing ghosts?"

For a moment Geralt sounded sceptical, raising an eyebrow. Jaskier looked down again, carefully letting go of his left hand, forcefully relaxing his fist. Then he exhaled, and, finally, told them everything. 

He spoke for over an hour, detailing everything that had happened, everything he had seen, down to the very last detail. Halfway through his report Geralt started to pace the room, shoulders tense, listening to the descriptions Jaskier gave with his face set in stone. He stopped when Jaskier arrived at the account of the scenes after the second trial he had seen, finally putting the sword down and leaning against the mantelpiece, arms firmly crossed in front of his chest. Eskel cast glances at him from time to time, and Vesemir was watching the entire scenery with barely any hint on his face as to what he might have been thinking. 

When Jaskier was done there was nothing but silence. The crackling of the fire was the only noise around, and Jaskier felt strangely tired now he had divulged everything. Leaning back against the headboard he watched Geralt, who was lost in thought. It was Eskel who looked at Vesemir and broke the silence. 

"How is this possible?"

Leaning back in his armchair Vesemir raised an eyebrow. 

"In general or in this particular circumstance?"

Eskel shrugged, but instead of replying Vesemir got up from his armchair, picking his sword up simultaneously. 

"I think I know, but I need to look something up first. Eskel, come with me."

Swiftly he swept out of the room, Eskel following him in his wake. Geralt remained where he was, unmoving and silent until Jaskier cleared his throat. 

"The things I saw. Did they happen?"

Geralt needed a moment to return to the present time from wherever his mind had wandered to. He looked strangely forlorn, as if there was a distance between Jaskier on the bed and him leaning against the mantelpiece that was impossible to cross and would never shrink again.

"More or less, I believe."

Even his voice was tense, but his face remained stoically empty. 

"What does that mean?"

Shrugging Geralt leant more of his weight onto the mantelpiece. 

"A lot of these - " He needed a moment to search for the perfect word, as if he couldn't decide what would fit best. 

" - these moments happened just like you described. For some I can't say."

Frowning Jaskier examined him closely. 

"What does that mean, you can't say? It was you I saw, I'm pretty sure. Well, also Eskel and maybe Dusko once or twice, but mostly you."

Geralt nodded, but he didn't look convinced. 

"Maybe, but I don't remember much. It was a very long time ago."

It sounded like an excuse, especially since Jaskier had learnt long ago that Geralt had an excellent memory, able to recall incidents, people and surroundings with almost frightful precision years and years afterwards. It was an incredibly useful ability, having secured their safe retreat through buildings that seemed like mazes, enabling Geralt to notice changes of minute details that could point towards a threat quickly. In contrast Jaskier, who had a very well trained memory himself, often felt like things were simply falling through his brain and vanished while everything seemed to stick to Geralt's mind, sometimes against his will.

"No, come on, you're looking for excuses. Why shouldn't you remember your childhood? Sure, it's probably a bit hazy, given you're an old coot, but it can't be that bad."

Geralt snorted at the slight insult, and then went back to looking mostly tired, as if he needed a hundred years of sleep while at the same time being painfully aware that he'd never find rest again in his entire long life.

"You forget that there were two trials between today and that time. Erasing various memories is part of the regular trials, and the second mutation has altered my mind in ways I still can't fully reconstruct."

Surprised Jaskier stared at him. He hadn't known the regular trials erased memories of the adepts, and it didn't make much sense. How did they determine what needed to go? And what had the second mutation done to Geralt's mind that Jaskier had never picked up on, not even watching the aftermath?

And then he remembered the younger versions of Geralt and wondered if what he had seen was really different from the witcher he knew, what the trials had changed, how much and how he was even able to pinpoint it exactly. Sure, he wasn't as volatile anymore as he had seemed in those memories, far more controlled, calm and silent. But had that really been only the trials or maybe a long life on the path, the constant pressure from the rejection he encountered everywhere, the bigotry, mistrust and hatred? It seem realistic to assume that this life, lead in complete and utter isolation for decades and decades, had left scars not only on Geralt's body but also in his mind. 

Sitting back Jaskier sank into his musings, and Geralt seemed to do more or less the same, probably reliving memories or at least trying to. The silence was heavy between them, and the tiredness that seemed to radiate from Geralt quickly crawled into Jaskier's body and mind where the exhaustion from earlier still lingered. He only noticed that the door opened as he was already sinking into deep sleep, suddenly realising that he had forgotten to ask Geralt what had actually happened in the corridor below but being already too far down to speak. 

When he awoke again it was day and Geralt was nowhere to be seen. Instead there was Eskel, bringing him a bowl of kasha and an assortment of food, chatting amicably but not saying anything of importance. Instead he talked about the storm howling outside, this night's dinner, and then gently took care of Jaskier's burnt palm. He kept on talking while applying a little of the healing salve apparently all witchers used, wrapping his hand in fresh bandages, seemingly content with the state of the injury and the healing progress. Jaskier felt content and warm afterwards, and fell back into sleep with surprising speed given he had just woken from an entire night of rest. 

It continued like this. For some reason Jaskier couldn't keep his eyes open for longer than it took to feed him something, care for his injury and chat a little. It was almost always Eskel who was there, seemingly friendly, but always armed. And if it wasn't Eskel and Jaskier managed to stay awake for longer someone else would be there - Lambert leant against the door frame, arms crossed and watching Jaskier, sword hilt visible over his right shoulder, or Coën in the armchair, reading a large tome from the library, his green eyes flickering to Jaskier and back to the book without missing a beat. His silver sword had a slightly different hilt from the one the wolf witchers carried, a little shorter, more elaborately decorated, a black onyx set into the pommel. 

It was mostly during the nights that it was Geralt who was there as well. He would be sitting in the armchair reading or kneeling on the floor trying to find into a meditative calm that seemed to elude him. But most often he was pacing, endlessly back and forth in the semi-darkness of the room, wide awake yet visibly overtired, restless, a dark shadow in the soft glow of the light from the fire. Just like the others he kept his silver sword nearby, but he didn't wear it on his back. 

All of them had in common that they barely spoke to Jaskier, and it was that which he found most unsettling. None of his questions had been answered after he had confessed to his ghostly encounters, and every time he asked now he was met with point blank refusal. Eskel only shook his head and told Jaskier to have patience, Lambert growled and ignored him, Coën seemed taken aback and preferred to talk about dragons or stay in silence. 

Geralt didn't talk at all. He seemed to constantly turn something around in his mind, as if he were pondering his options, trying to come to a decision Jaskier couldn't fathom. 

Finally Jaskier realised that his sleep was anything but natural, and could easily be traced back to Eskel's appearances in his room. He confronted him the next time Eskel appeared in the door with a tray of food, looking strange with the steaming bowl of stew before him and the silver sword on his back, the contrast between the homely food and the threat of the blade unsettling.

Setting everything down carefully he gracefully perched on the edge of the bed, and Jaskier pushed himself up.

"Tell me why you aren't talking to me, and why you keep me asleep."

Eskel didn't falter in his movement, handing Jaskier the bowl. 

"Took you long enough to notice. You will see, give us a little more time." 

Taking the hot bowl Jaskier noticed the steam rising from what looked like a good vegetable stew, chunks of meat visible in the thick soup. 

"How long? What is happening?"

But Eskel only shook his head, more or less forced Jaskier to finish the bowl and left just in time for Jaskier to sink under again, his body content and his mind slowly succumbing to a nervous sleep.

When he awoke the next time it was dark outside again and Geralt was sitting in the armchair next to the fire, slumped back in what seemed to be complete exhaustion, eyes closed, legs splayed and stretched out. For a moment Jaskier watched him, blinking his own dizziness away. Geralt seemed less peacefully asleep than simply passed out, and from the way his head was hanging Jaskier could already tell he'd have a terribly sore neck when he would wake up. The medallion sat on his dark grey tunic, shimmering softly in the firelight. With the sleeves of the tunic pushed up Jaskier noticed that the cut on his forearm had completely healed by now, not leaving a trace on the pale skin.

Flexing his hurt hand Jaskier realised that the burn mark on his palm was slowly healing as well. With his free hand he worried at the knot until it fell apart, revealing the blisters slowly receding, the skin on the burn mark red and pink. Still it was the perfect outline of the medallion, the lines of the wolf head burnt deeper into the skin, visible if one knew to look for them. 

Looking from the outline on his palm to Geralt's medallion Jaskier sat up, carefully swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat for a moment, willing the dizziness away, clearing his head. But he felt well quickly, got up and closed the short distance to the armchair. Bending over Geralt he held his hand out, close to the medallion, not touching it, just comparing the burn mark to the offending object. 

He had barely stopped for more than a second when Geralt reacted. Coming from sleep to full consciousness within the blink of an eye he jumped up, a hand on Jaskier's shoulder turning him around and pushing him down so that their places were swiftly reversed. Now Jaskier sat in the armchair, dumbfounded at the sheer speed with which he had been forced down, with Geralt standing in front of him, having somehow picked up his sword at the same time as shoving Jaskier into the armchair.

Jaskier felt his heartbeat rush, the adrenaline from the sudden attack causing his breathing to speed up, his instinct telling him to flee. It had happened so fast that he hadn't had any time to understand why Geralt had reacted this way, and they were simply staring at each other for a moment. Then Jaskier realised that Geralt looked like he felt just as surprised, only without the frantic heartbeat and the adrenaline surge. Poised not for flight but fight his fast reaction could not have been anything but instinct, and with a dreadful pang Jaskier realised once more that they kept him locked away in this room and in a state of permanent drowsiness for a reason, that they weren't armed to protect but to watch. 

He sank back in the armchair, the sudden drop of adrenaline leaving him slightly shaking. Exhaling at the same time Geralt relaxed his stance, still holding his sword loosely by his side. But he wasn't taking his eyes off Jaskier.

"What happened to me?"

Jaskier had asked the question before, but now he felt more desperate than the first time. Geralt had been wary around him in the first years of their friendship, careful and guarded, but he had never before reacted like this, especially not when he had his weapons close to him. 

"I have been asking myself the same question lately."

Putting his hands on his knees, careful not to aggravate the burn mark on his palm Jaskier looked down. The answer was cryptic, and it did nothing to sooth his fears.

"Please tell me that you know and for some idiotic reason are just keeping this from me."

Somehow Jaskier was of the firm opinion that this had to be the case, because Geralt always somehow knew what was happening, and how to deal with it. Years and years of experience had given him the stoic calm Jaskier had started to depend upon, the unshakable demeanour that always persisted, even in the worst possible circumstances. He had been composed and collected when Jaskier had been taken by the harpies, when they had been bound and beaten by those elves, even that one terrible time when Jaskier had stumbled over him tortured and locked up in a cage waiting for death or worse. 

Death or worse had never come, and it was with indestructible trust that Jaskier was now looking up, watching Geralt turn around and start to pace the room again. 

"Our reasons are far from idiotic."

Looking again at the imprint on his palm Jaskier shrugged, slowly regaining a little of his composure. So they knew, at least. 

"But you know how to deal with this?"

He listened to Geralt pace back and forth, measured steps of always exactly the same length. Geralt could walk like a clockwork ticked, perfectly balanced in a never changing or faltering rhythm. 

"Maybe."

Then he stopped, looking at Jaskier. The dancing flames were casting long shadows over his angular face, his eyes unusually dark, glowing faintly. 

"Jaskier, this will get worse before it gets better. Try not to be afraid."

It was supposed to be a reassurance, but it was the worst possible thing Geralt could have said. Nobody in their right mind asked another person not to be afraid unless there was an actual tangible reason for fear, and Jaskier felt his stomach plunge into formerly unknown depth. Never before had Geralt warned him like this, no matter what they had walked into together, whatever unreasonably dangerous and large creature he had prepared to fight. He had tried to chase Jaskier away or simply told him to stay behind and keep out of his way, but never to not be afraid. Whatever was going to happen, it seemed Geralt couldn't keep Jaskier out of it, or maybe wasn't even in full control of the situation, unable to deal with it in the way he preferred, dependent on external factors he couldn't quite calculate in the usual calm, detached manner of his.

Jaskier tried to say something, ask for some sort of reassurance he knew Geralt couldn't give him, wanted to reach out and at least touch if they couldn't speak. But then the door opened and Eskel sauntered into the room, carrying a mug of tea and bringing with him the infernal tiredness that reliably knocked Jaskier out. 

The next time he awoke it was still night, and Eskel and Geralt were in the room, talking quietly. Having finally learnt his lesson Jaskier remained perfectly still, unmoving under his blankets, listening. 

"I really don't like where this is going."

Eskel seemed to be sitting in the armchair, somewhere close to Jaskier's head. 

"For obvious reasons. I won't lie and say I'm fond of the idea, that would be ridiculous. But both Vesemir and you agreed that this is the only way." 

Geralt's voice came from somewhere slightly lower, and Jaskier imagined that he was sitting on the floor, probably kneeling in front of the fire. He sounded calm now, resolved, as if he had spent enough time pondering his options and settled on a course of action he was willing to follow through to its bitter end.

"It is. We have been looking for an alternative, but there is none. Still, I don't like it. It's too risky."

There was silence for a short moment before Geralt answered. 

"And yet it must be done. I trust you to make the right decisions."

More silence, and then again Eskel. 

"And if it goes wrong?"

His voice was calm, with just a little edge to it, something that Jaskier couldn't place. It seemed forever before Geralt answered this time. 

"Then you will know what to do."

This time Eskel didn't answer, and Jaskier waited and waited, until he drifted off into sleep again. 

When he awoke the next day it was daylight, and he was alone for the first time in a while. Sitting up in the bed he realised how terrible he felt, still dressed in the clothing from what seemed like forever ago, his hair chaos, everything about him rumpled and sweaty. He needed a bath, and food, and to stretch his legs. He decided to start with his legs right now, swinging them over the edge of the bed and standing up, moving his arms a little to get his circulation going. It felt good, almost normal, and he was on the way over to where his washing bowl sat when the door opened and Eskel marched into the room, armoured and armed, followed by Geralt. 

"Ah, good morning, songbird. Up and about, I see. What do you say, shall we go for a little hunt on this fine day?"

Confused Jaskier nodded, unsure what role he was supposed to play in this scenario. Over Eskel's shoulder he saw Geralt's pale face, his expression unreadable, and when he looked back at Eskel he noticed the hand forming the sign just a little too late. Falling into deep unconsciousness he sank forward, feeling himself being safely caught in Eskel's arms before the world around him went dark. 

When he came back to his senses everything was peachy. He felt great, fresh and awake after what seemed like a good sleep, wondering if maybe the whole commotion had just been a bad dream after all. Stretching a little he noticed he was lying on his back, and he would have wiggled some more hadn't a heavy weight been placed on his chest, rendering him close to immobile. It was all a bit strange, the bed too hard, the air where his body was exposed too cold. Blinking he realised the room was dimly lit, and that he was lying on the ground. Above him a large cavernous room opened, the vaulted ceiling barely visible in the darkness, the stones already black without the added darkness. The air was cool and stale, smelling slightly of mould.

He was placed neatly on a large fur, probably a bearskin, without a pillow under his head but a heavy horse blanket over him, tucked in nicely around his body. That was a little strange in itself, but nothing to dampen Jaskier's good spirits. It got a little worse, though, when he realised that the weight on top of his chest consisted in a very familiar silver sword, placed on his body facing downwards, the pommel resting on his sternum. The horse blanket, he realised, had been put there not only to keep him warm but also to serve as a barrier between his body and the silver. 

Well, he could work with that. He knew the sword, obviously, and it wasn't that he hadn't looked after it before. Just that this time he couldn't move his arms, because the weight of the sword seemed to have tripled at least, and it kept him solidly pinned to the ground. But he could turn his head, just enough to see the candles flickering to his right and left, placed at the edges of what looked like a large star-like shape marked on the ground with a white substance that suspiciously looked like salt. He hadn't known witchers had such a flair for the dramatic, but it seemed they had managed to hide much more from him than just that.

Turning his head a few more times he looked up to the ceiling again, his solid chipperness from earlier evaporating ever so slightly at the realisation that he was lying on the floor somewhere in the basement of Kaer Morhen, with Geralt's silver sword on his chest, laid out like a human sacrifice in a fucking pentagram carefully made out of salt. 

It wasn't the worst day of his life so far, but it seemed to be trying its best to rank really high in that unfortunate top ten.

Carefully he turned his head again, trying to see more of his surroundings. He wasn't surprised to find Geralt kneeling in the vicinity, close but outside the pentagram. He seemed perfectly calm and composed, much as he always did, with his eyes closed, head tipped slightly forward, his hair falling over his shoulders. Sunken in what seemed to be meditation his hands lay on his knees, palms facing upwards, fingers relaxed. The medallion was dangling in the folds of his dark shirt, glittering in the light of the candles. Next to him on the ground stood a single vial filled with a dark liquid.

On a second glance Jaskier realised that he wasn't wearing a single piece of armour and seemed completely unarmed, if one ignored the fact that his silver sword was currently in use as a paper weight on Jaskier's chest. It wasn't that Geralt never went about unarmed, but in this situation it seemed strange. Very few monsters required pentagrams to be used in a hunt, but whenever one of them had crossed their ways Geralt had made sure to be properly prepared, as it were exactly these scenarios that tended to go very wrong very quickly if not approached carefully.

Clearing his throat Jaskier tried to see if he could get Geralt's attention. To his surprise it worked, his eyes opening quickly. In the darkness of the room they were almost black, but on a second glance Jaskier realised that they weren't coloured by a potion, that it was simply his pupils blown wide, the slightest hint of gold still visible around them.

"Uhm, hello."

Jaskier's voice echoed strangely in the large room, even though he had spoken only softly. Geralt only raised an eyebrow, tilting his head. He seemed strangely awake, focused, and Jaskier realised that while he didn't seem outfitted for battle he was mentally prepared for it. 

But he didn't say anything, so Jaskier continued the so far one-sided conversation on his own.

"I thought we had come to the agreement that the next time you wanted to use me as bait you'd tell me beforehand? Just so we don't get another harpy disaster, you know."

He tried to sound just a little pissed off even though it was of course pointless, given the fact that it was clearly too late to change anything about the situation. Still it felt like a good idea to get his complaint out before it was too late and they were all dead by grace of some unfortunate problem that might have had something do with, ah, he didn't know, maybe the fact that suddenly Geralt had decided to not bother with weapons anymore.

Geralt didn't seem impressed, but at least he answered.

"You're not here to serve as bait."

Somehow that managed to relieve Jaskier enormously. 

"Oh, that's grand. Good! Very good."

He nodded, as much as he was able to while pinned to the ground by the impossibly heavy sword, and then twisted his head again to look at Geralt. 

"So we're not trying to lure something in here?"

There was a hint of amusement in Geralt's stern and very pale face, but it was gone quickly again. 

"We are."

Nodding again Jaskier tried to lift his head just a little further, then frowned and looked at Geralt, kneeling on the ground, completely and emphatically unarmed, unarmoured. Groaning Jaskier dropped his head again, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Sweet Melitele, have mercy. You're the bait?"

But Geralt only shrugged, seeing no need to admit the obvious. It also explained nicely why Jaskier was inside the pentagram and Geralt was firmly outside the protected area. 

"Right. Of course. You're the bait, I'm the, well, something, relaxing here in my lovely pentagram, that's really swell. But is there a witcher in this scenario? Because somehow it seems, ah, I don't know, like it would be a good idea to have someone here who's actually capable of fighting whatever we're trying to lure in. Just a little idea of mine."

Geralt's eyebrows climbed higher, and he nodded his head towards the far corner of the room. Turning his head Jaskier looked over and was quite happy to find that there, in the far corner and almost perfectly hidden in the darkness indeed was a witcher. Eskel knelt with his back to the wall tucked neatly away in a long shadow, fully armoured and armed, hands relaxed on his thighs, eyes closed in focused meditation. 

"Ah, well, that's good. Very good. Exactly what we need right now. Just brilliant."

Dropping his head again Jaskier turned back to Geralt, catching his half-amused glance before he slowly shook his head, stretched his spine a little to sit up taller and closed his eyes again, falling into meditative silence. Jaskier, however, was nervous. 

"Wait, what are we doing now?"

Geralt didn't bother to open his eyes again. 

"We will wait."

And they did. No matter what Jaskier tried, Geralt did not respond to him again. So he simply lay back again, his head on the fur, feeling the weight of the sword on his chest. Something had to be up with that, as Jaskier knew exactly how much that sword was supposed to weigh, and it certainly wasn't this heavy. 

Closing his eyes he tried to rest as well, but he couldn't. He was nervous, knowing that something was about to happen, having no idea what Eskel and Geralt had planned besides the obvious fact that they were prepared for battle, to take down whatever it was they were waiting for. It left Jaskier worried, having no idea what place he'd take in that plan, why he was there at all. On the other hand it would be exciting to watch them both fight together, a rare sight Jaskier never before had the chance to enjoy. It had all the makings of a famous heroic song, this whole scenario. If they survived, that was, a thought that was slightly worrisome to Jaskier.

To keep himself occupied he looked around the room. From the musty odour and the coldness seeping in from the stones he had a faint idea where he was, knowing how the basement smelled, easily concluding that there was only one room down here that was large enough to be the one they were in. 

The pentagram he was lying in was set up on the floor opposite the large metal door. There was plenty of space between the door and the pentagram, the room being surprisingly large. Geralt knelt on the other side of the pentagram, and behind him Jaskier saw the hulking shape of a large construction, a table of sorts, made out of metal. There were chains fixed to it at the sides, dangling down empty, the cuffs opened. Behind it in the darkness were more shapes, shelves holding bottles and instruments gleaming faintly, but too far away for Jaskier to really see what was in there. 

It was enough already and he knew exactly where he was, shuddering at the shape of the table, knowing why those chains where there, who had been held down with them. He remembered seeing the way Geralt's wrists had been torn after the second mutation, how the metal had buried itself into his flesh, leaving deep and bleeding wounds.

He suddenly felt cold, shivering in the cool, stale air. Trying to calm his breathing he looked up at the vaulted ceiling again, hoping to find something his eyes could rest on to take his mind of the horrors of the past and the imminent fight. 

It didn't work. His body got colder by the minute, the sword seemingly growing even heavier. He needed to strain his chest to breathe, watching the pommel rise and fall with every inhale and exhale. He shivered again, pressing his eyes shut and opening them again. It was terrible to be left alone like this, with only his mind for company painting whatever was to happen in vivid and horrific colours. He wanted to fidget, do something instead of simply being laid out here, but he couldn't move. 

Then he felt the tingle, accompanying another shiver down his spine. It was a familiar feeling, intertwined with the cold, but distinctively different. He wondered if he should inform Geralt, but when he looked over he found Geralt's eyes already opened, his sudden focus almost frightening. Without any rush he flexed his hands once, and reached to the side, picking up the little vial. Taking off the cork he downed the dark potion before replacing the empty bottle somewhere behind him. Closing his eyes he waited until whatever the effect the concoction was supposed to have unfold, breathing deeply. When he opened his eyes again they were still dark, but not black. Whatever he had taken, it hadn't been for an artificial adrenaline hit or anything he needed for a long and strenuous battle, leaving Jaskier to wonder a little at the choice. 

The door was pushed open without any warning. There had been no steps outside, nothing that had prepared Jaskier for the sudden appearance of what they had been waiting for. 

Entering the room, casually and relaxed, was one of the shadows Jaskier had grown so familiar with. As soon as it had crossed the threshold it seemed to materialise, now making noise like a human would, steps on the stones, the hand on the door closing it. Turning his head Jaskier gaped at the figure of the younger Geralt he had seen around quite a few times, the way he had looked shortly before the first trials. Dressed as he had been in most of the memories, dark hair tied back in exactly the same way the actual Geralt kneeling on the ground had tied his silver white hair back he looked achingly familiar, and yet frighteningly wrong now that Jaskier knew there was a sinister background to what he was seeing. 

Turning his head back and forth between the shadow and the actual Geralt Jaskier could do nothing but stare. Seeing them both opposite each other made the similarities and differences stand out clearly, the shadow version of Geralt youthful and relaxed, without the lines on his face, grey blue eyes clear and curious. In comparison the actual Geralt kneeling on the ground seemed centuries older, tired, very pale in the faint light, the lines around his inhumanly dark eyes standing out more clearly.

For a moment they just looked at each other, the shadowy figure with confidence, the kneeling Geralt with mild interest but far less shocked than Jaskier would have been had his eighteen-year-old self just waltzed into the room. Then Geralt nodded, slowly rising to his feet and calmly moved towards the figure, carefully avoiding to step on the lines of salt. He stopped before the shadow, now standing between the pentagram and the shadowy version of himself. It gave Jaskier an excellent view onto the proceedings, and also revealed that Geralt wasn't as unarmed as he had appeared, a short dagger tucked into the waistband of his breeches, pressed flat against the small of his back. 

He stood for a moment just watching the shadow, close but out of reach, apparently waiting for something, a move, an attack. It was the shadow that spoke first. 

"You look at me as if you have never seen me before."

But Geralt remained entirely unimpressed at hearing his own voice talk to him.

"I do wonder what I am actually looking at."

The shadow grinned, tilting his head just a little to the side. 

"Yourself, possibly?"

Geralt only shrugged. 

"Certainly not. But the last time I've been unfortunate enough to look what seems to be myself in the eye it was a doppler. The medallion does not react to these, just like it does not react to you. And yet you are not a doppler." 

The shadow ceded to that point. 

"Indeed I am not a doppler."

Geralt looked his opposite up and down, appraising what he was seeing.

"So what are you?"

The shadow laughed, but sobered up quickly. 

"But you do have an idea, don't you? Otherwise you wouldn't have bothered with this." It nodded towards the pentagram on the floor. 

"And you finally did know what to do the last time we met down here, though you were clueless during our first encounter."

Now Geralt tilted his head slightly, and briefly Jaskier wondered who was copying whom at this point. He had also never watched Geralt have a longer conversation with something he intended to kill, not once in a decade of watching him fight a lengthy variety of monsters and unearthly things. It was confusing and frightening, and yet Jaskier's curiosity was having a field day. 

"There's very few creatures the medallion does not react to. From what I have seen so far I assume you are a type of higher spectre, capable of moving between various spheres."

The shadow raised an eyebrow, nodding its approval. 

"You are smarter than you appear. Did your brothers help you? You have quite a fine library in this derelict fortress, I must say."

The insults slid off Geralt as they usually did, not bothering him in the slightest.

"I understand that you needed a body to anchor yourself in. But why split yourself, why did you choose to inhabit Jaskier?"

Finally it dawned on Jaskier that maybe he wasn't simply present to watch an interesting battle unfold and sing a lovely song about it later, but that they had taken him down here and put him in a bloody pentagram because he had a problem, and it could have something to do with the fact that whatever that thing standing there and having a nice chat with Geralt was had decided to possess him. That would explain the ghosts, and the tiredness, and the restlessness and just about everything. And still it didn't make sense what Geralt had said about the spectre having split itself, needing a body to anchor itself in and yet deciding to inhabit Jaskier.

But then Jaskier had never before been possessed by anything, and didn't know the etiquette of the whole scenario. It also didn't quite make his day to realise that his body maybe hadn't been his for a while now. He had been kidnapped and captured, nearly bitten by a vampire once, a few time almost gotten pulled into a lake by a drowner, but possessed? Maybe just about everyone was right when they told him he needed to stop associating himself with witchers lest something terrible happen to him one day. 

Turning his head to see a little better he looked closely at the shadow from below, craning his neck for a moment. When he had to drop his heavy head again he noticed that in the far away corner Eskel had opened his eyes, watching, calculating.

In the meantime the shadow was shifting its weight a little forward. 

"Usually I try not to settle in lower creatures, you must know."

There was a hint of displeasure on Geralt's face, but if vanished quickly. 

"You seemed rather eager when we met in that cave. And it doesn't explain why you settled in Jaskier's body."

The shadow shrugged, looking as innocent as possible. 

"Maybe I was a bit eager. But then I choose him because he is more useful than you are."

Jaskier watched in awe as the shadow moved closer to Geralt, scrutinising him carefully.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Smiling the shadow nodded, still slowly moving closer. It seemed to have giving up the pretence of walking, now rather gliding forward.

"I've never seen anything like you, witcher. I thought it would be interesting to spend some time with you. But you've been putting up quite a fight, and I don't have patience. So I was looking for a more suitable way to nourish myself, and he proved quite ideal when it came to that. You know how weak humans are, how easy to use." 

It was obvious that the shadow was trying to circle Geralt, who moved with it, continuously facing it so it wouldn't be in his back. That quickly annoyed the shadow, and it stopped again. 

"So suspicious. Why, you know I'm not really in front of you, that I'm just a figment of your imaginations and your memories. I already overpowered you once, I don't need to do it again. It's too late for you anyway."

Stopping close to Geralt the shadow reached out, and to Jaskier's surprise Geralt didn't move. As if he was rooted on the spot he stood silently, letting the hand of the shadow come close, touch him, brush over his left side. He controlled it very well, but Jaskier saw the flicker of pain on his face, the firm set of his jaw. 

Stepping back the shadow seemed satisfied with what it had achieved with its little demonstration. Geralt, on the other hand, had already brushed the discomfort aside and managed to surprise Jaskier enormously by letting a few seconds pass before doing the last thing Jaskier had expected him to do. In a swift motion he stripped himself off his shirt, throwing the garment to the side where it vanished in the shadows. This was surely the strangest hunt Jaskier had ever witnessed - first a lengthy conversation and then Geralt taking his clothes off instead of actually fighting. What were they going to do next, dance a little jig?

And then Jaskier realised why he had done it, and what he had meant when he had mentioned the spectre anchoring itself in a body. On the left side of his torso the gashes Jaskier had stitched up weeks ago were still there, and looked much worse than they had when Jaskier had seen them for the first time. The wounds themselves were deep red, angrily inflamed around the silver thread that held them closed. Around them the skin had darkened to a poisonous black, the veins running through the wounds carrying the darkness with them, like tentacles of black reaching out further, pulsing under pale skin. It looked very painful, and with sudden shock Jaskier realised that he hadn't been the only one keeping secrets in the past weeks.

"I would be aware. But tell me, how can you be in my body and still possess Jaskier? I didn't know that was possible."

The shadow looked at the wounds with satisfaction. 

"And I always thought you knew everything about creatures high and low. Well, then, listen and learn. I am not from your sphere, but I can switch between them. I usually exist on my own, but if I want to stay where I do not come from I need a body as anchor and nourishment, as you already guessed. I live off my anchor for a while before I decide to switch spheres, or they die."

Geralt listened carefully, but he wasn't yet satisfied with the answer. 

"So you ended up with me. But you can't live off me, or at least not entirely."

The shadow turned to look at Jaskier on the ground, for the first time since it had entered acknowledging his presence.

"If I had known how complicated your mutated physiology is I wouldn't have picked you in the first place. You are very difficult to control, no matter what I tried. So I needed to look for nourishment somewhere else, to complement what I could take from you. It looked a little bleak for me, I give you that. But there he was, your human stumbling along. I was quite happy with that."

The gaze fixed on Jaskier was beyond unnerving, as if the shadow was appraising him and his caloric value. It wasn't the first time something had looked at Jaskier like that, but it had hardly happened in such a situation. Suddenly he was glad the pentagram was there, and fiercely hoping it would hold. 

"How did you do it?"

The creature laughed. 

"I didn't do much at all. I just needed to lure him out and then slip in, I didn't even need to injure him like I did with you. His skin is so porous, all his emotions and his heart on his sleeve, delicious." 

The shadow seemed short of licking its lips, and Jaskier felt the hair on arms rise, the impulse to flee growing stronger. But he remained unable to move, pinned to the ground by the sword and the hungry gaze out of grey blue eyes. Then the creature turned around and focused on Geralt again. 

"But you know that already, don't you? Now, as I said, he came to me, or rather to you. He was easy to figure out, though I must say it helped when he put his hands on your body, right where I was resting. That damned silver thread, but eventually I found a way to deal with that, too. Did you think that would work? Pathetic. Well, so I just had to wait for the opportune moment and slip into your human, and then just see how I could make the most of those emotions. And you know how humans are, show them something that hurts their hearts and their souls swell. Always in love, always worried, so easy to manipulate."

Listening dumbfounded Jaskier felt hot anger welling up in him. Being possessed might be one thing, but being used as dinner? And not even in the variety where claws dug through flesh and cracked bones, but sucked dry of his emotions, his love, his very soul? And, just as worse, the creature using Geralt's past, his pain, his suffering as means to the end of provoking Jaskier's emotions? He was mortally offended and curling his hands to fists he just so managed to hold back the growl in his throat, barely noticing the pain in his right palm.

"So you used my memories to manipulate him."

Geralt still sounded calm, detached. The shadow nodded. 

"Of course. They were surprisingly well hidden, but I found them eventually. Ah, you and your obscure little soul. But it worked, I could rest in your body and drink his emotions. Well, eventually he would have died, and so would you a little later."

Shrugging the shadow indicated that it wasn't particularly worried at the idea of both of them dying. Geralt, on the other hand, didn't seem just as enamoured with the concept. 

"I expected that to be your plan. Considering we are here now that might have to change."

That amused the shadow greatly. 

"And pray tell, how do you intend to do that? I admit he's currently well-hidden in that damned sign you drew on the ground, but you are not. And you can't kill me, as you well know. I'm woven into your flesh, tethered to your body, and you cannot free yourself from me. He will die, and so will you, maybe a long time after your human, but eventually. Sorry, witcher."

The shadow sounded anything but sorry, and Jaskier's fists started to hurt from how tight he was curling them. Across the room he watched Eskel's calm gaze rest on the scenario, eyes no longer amber but black, veins standing out on his suddenly very pale skin. Jaskier hadn't noticed him take the potion, but then he had been focused on the spectre and its hideous revelations.

Geralt had in the meantime only hummed a response, reaching behind and pulling the dagger free. Without bothering to hide his movements he unsheathed it, revealing a short silver blade, throwing the sheath somewhere to the sidelines. The shadow wasn't impressed. 

"That's a nice little thing. What do you want to do, throw it at me?"

Tilting his head Geralt watched the shadow closely, a sudden and unnerving hint of a smile tugging at his lips. 

"Not exactly."

And instead of throwing the dagger or attacking the spectre in any way he only pressed the flat side of the blade against his own body, right on top of the wounds. The torn skin under the silver burnt immediately, and watching him Jaskier winced involuntarily. But so did the spectre, hissing, for the shortest moment flickering. The smile on Geralt's face intensified, becoming much more unsettling, almost frightening. 

"That would be enough to prove my theory."

Removing the dagger from his skin without any obvious sign of the pain he had to be feeling he watched the shadow straighten again, now slowly moving forward, suddenly dangerously poised to attack where before it had been relaxed, apparently completely secure in the knowledge that it had the upper hand. 

"And what would that be?"

Geralt tilted his head just a little, eyes fixed on the approaching figure, unmoved by its slow and dangerous approach. 

"Anchoring yourself to a creature of this sphere made you susceptible to silver. You were clever enough to hide it for a long time, keeping yourself away from the medallion so I wouldn't know, spreading around the silver thread in my body but not repelling it though it caused you pain. You forgot that sooner or later Jaskier would touch silver and we'd notice your little problem."

While he was speaking and without any reason Jaskier could discern just yet Geralt moved a little to the side, turning slightly, but without any haste. The spectre hissed. 

"And what do you intend to do with that knowledge? It's not going to help you much. You all fear pain and death, I know the beings of this sphere well by now. You'd rather wait and waste away under my power than meet a violent and painful end right now."

Remaining completely still Geralt raised an eyebrow. 

"Considering you've been sitting in my body and my obscure soul you know surprisingly little about me. As you so rightly noticed I am a witcher. I am well acquainted with pain and death, and I fear neither."

His last words made Jaskier's heart miss a beat, but there was nothing he could do. Staring in horror he could only watch Geralt calmly and without hesitation flip the sharp silver blade in his hand, holding it in a steady reverse grip and plunging it deep into his own body.

The second the tip of the dagger pierced his skin just below the ribs the spectre screeched, suddenly losing its form. It was as if the edges of it became blurry and the further the blade went into the darkened skin of Geralt's torso the more it lost its shape, the wailing noise piercing, hurting Jaskier's ears. And at the same time Jaskier felt a sudden and painful pull in his entire body, his blood rushing in his ears. Gasping for air he tried to sit up to breathe more easily, the searing pain in his body for a moment making him dizzy, the high pitched screech in his ears ringing. It lasted mere seconds, and when he came to his senses again he realised that he was sitting in the pentagram now, the sword having slipped down from his chest, its weight nothing more than the usual heaviness Jaskier knew. He could breathe, feeling himself growing light, the endless tiredness vanishing, the lead in his limbs gone. Suddenly his mind was clear and he felt fresh, awake and focused. 

Sitting in the pentagram Jaskier rubbed his face and then tried to remain as still as possible, trying not to catch the spectre's attention, still not knowing where this was heading. And he couldn't look away from the gruesome spectacle in front of him, watching with cold fear bubbling in him as Geralt meticulously pushed the blade into his body, dragging it down in a cross motion, cutting deep into the existing wound and the poisoned flesh. 

He remained mostly unmoved by the immense pain he obviously had to feel, his face nothing but controlled emptiness. It was only when he had finished the first cut, the blade almost reaching his hip bones and dark blood running down in thick streams that he slowly sank down until he knelt on the floor, completely focused on his task. 

It looked a lot like his knees were simply buckling under the impact of what he was doing to himself, but it also brought him out of the line of fire and opened the way for Eskel. Jaskier had been so fixed on the horrific happenings in front of him and the screeching terror of the spectre slowly dissolving into the dark cloud he already knew so well that he hadn't noticed him rise silently and approach, silver sword in hand.

While the spectre was turning into an undefined cloud of inky black darkness, containing a tall long shape, arms with extended claws reaching forward towards where Geralt was focused on his bloody work Eskel had taken the few steps he needed and cast Igni, setting the spectre alight and rendering it completely visible where beforehand it had been blurred, melting into the darkness of the room. 

Turning towards him the spectre hissed, its attention shifting. It moved with surprising speed, straight at Eskel, who cast another sign that hit the spectre and slowed it down remarkably. He took the chance and placed two strategic sword blows on it before retreating again, observing the reaction to the attack. 

It didn't take long for the fire on the spectre to die away, rendering it almost invisible again. But Eskel didn't seem particularly taken aback at fighting an almost invisible opponent. He recast Igni to find the spectre hovering a little closer, fended off an attack by the long claws aimed at him, and suddenly found his opponent vanished into thin air. Turning around once Eskel tilted his head to listen, focused on what seemed like an entirely empty room. 

"Is it still here?"

His question was directed at Geralt, who nodded silently, his hands still busy dragging the dagger through his body, the silver blade cutting through darkened flash and blackened veins.

Out of nowhere the spectre suddenly reappeared, a vicious black cloud attacking from the far corner. But Eskel noticed it the second it formed, casting another sign. This time the spectre hovered above them, hurtling across the room at high speed, claws reaching out, a deadly cloud. It evaded the pentagram Jaskier was lying in, but it brushed past Geralt missing him by sheer luck, given that he was already too injured to react swiftly. 

Growling Eskel cast another sign Jaskier recognised as Quen, and did what Jaskier hadn't even known was possible: he separated the magical shield the sign created from himself, and even from afar easily placed it over Geralt. It was a useful idea, leaving the spectre to focus entirely on Eskel while Geralt could continue his gruesome task mostly undisturbed. 

From then the fight picked up pace. The spectre attacked again and again, switching sides and space, coming from above or beyond, vanishing suddenly and reappearing. But Eskel seemed tireless in dealing blows, evading the attacks and using the momentum of the spectre to power long sword swings. It was spectacular to watch, the cloud of darkness being lit up again and again by the fire of Igni, appearing and disappearing, the silver of Eskel's sword gleaming as he turned and slashed, deadly and precise. 

And time was on his side. Even to Jaskier it was obvious that the spectre was losing power the longer the fight progressed, the longer Geralt had time to dig the unwelcome guest out of his skin, the silver blade searing the blackened flesh as he dragged it through his body. 

Watching in awe Jaskier found himself reaching for the silver sword, grasping it firmly, fingers wrapped around the hilt. Carefully he shifted his position until he was crouching on the floor, pushing the horse blanket off him, keeping his head low. There was no reason for him to get involved into a fight Eskel seemed to have perfectly under control, but he felt better this way, at least armed and poised to do something.

If Eskel noticed he didn't give any indication he was bothered by it, and Geralt had his back to Jaskier, unable to see him. But Jaskier saw the pool of blood he was kneeling in, realising that this fight had to end soon if they wanted him to survive, that if it took too long it wouldn't be the spectre that would eventually kill him but his own steady hands. 

For a moment the fight came to a standstill, the spectre hovering close to Geralt, still protected by the shield Eskel had cast. He was done with cutting across his side, two large gashes now crossing each other, the silver blade having done what it had been supposed to do. Now he was waiting, having pulled the blade out of his flesh, leaning forward but otherwise unmoving, silent and focused but still conscious.

Suddenly the spectre turned, raced across the room, met Eskel's blade with its claws and attacked Geralt directly from above. The shield held, but it was obvious that it wouldn't remain intact much longer. Shields created by signs could be fickle, as Jaskier knew very well, usually holding only for a few blows, minutes maybe. By that standard Eskel's sign had held up extremely well, but the spectre had pushed a lot of energy into its attacks, and it was inevitable it would break soon. 

And the spectre knew. Falling down from the ceiling it hovered close to the ground, as if it were standing. Fending off Eskel's next attack it reached out, long claws stretched towards Geralt, scraping the shielding spell, screeching triumphantly as the barrier gave way. Eskel placed another blow on the spectre, but it was already focused on its target, taking the damage Eskel dealt it without slowing. 

Jaskier saw it coming, and without thinking rose to his feet. He was still inside the pentagram, but now he held the sword in his right hand, the imprint of Geralt's medallion on his palm burning against the rough leather of the hilt. There was no rationale to his actions, no careful consideration. Without thinking why he stepped over the line of salt, immediately piquing the interest of the spectre that turned towards him as the easiest target for now. The long claw reached out, fast and terribly sharp, the dark cloud fixed on him like it had been back in the corridor. 

Watching the attack as if it happened in slow motion Jaskier remembered how it had felt to be threatened by this creature back that night, how it had later overpowered him when he had been lying in his room with the fever rattling his bones, the fear, the helplessness. There was nothing of that within him now. Instead he only felt the sword in his hand, and in one swift motion that was only almost too slow he lifted it, parried the attack and hit the creature. It wasn't graceful nor particularly strong, but he managed to cut deep into the tentacle like arms that connected the claws with the black cloud forming the main body of the spectre. 

The spectre howled at the impact, angry with pain, and moved to attack Jaskier again. But it never got that far. It was exactly that distraction that Eskel had needed to get close to the spectre, and while it was fixed on Jaskier he approached it from behind. Geralt, in the meantime, had forced the dagger into his skin again, into the middle of the large wound he had already created, right where it was oozing dark, thick liquid that decidedly wasn't his blood, or at least not his blood as it usually appeared. He twisted the dagger once, twice, mercilessly, before finally succumbing to the pain and slumping to the side, unable to remain upright any longer. The spectre suddenly howled and Eskel lifted his sword to drive it deep into the main body of the spectre, right into the middle of the dark cloud, a long cutting motion with more strength than Jaskier had ever seen him muster. 

And it worked. With a piercing screech that made Jaskier's ears ring and seemed to vibrate not only the stale air but also the silver sword in his hands the spectre twisted. But it couldn't withstand the blow, now untethered, too weak without an anchor. The dark cloud pulsated threateningly for another moment and then wailed before folding into itself and simply evaporating. 

Jaskier as so surprised at the sudden silence that he nearly dropped the sword, his body still coiled to attack, his heart beating wildly, adrenaline flaring through his veins. He was breathing too fast, almost panting as if he had run too far. Looking up he met Eskel's gaze, who had lowered his own sword already, his own breathing ever so slightly faster after the fight, a little sweat on his brow. He was completely unhurt, but his eyes were still nothing but black emptiness. Briefly he exhaled, letting go of the tension in his body as much as he could while still under the influence of the potion, and then nodded at Jaskier approvingly. 

"A good hit. Always knew you were dangerous, songbird."

Jaskier nodded, suddenly feeling the intense exhilaration of the victory, the fact that they were still alive, that the spectre was gone. It felt dizzying, but in a good way, his head suddenly spinning with relief. He copied Eskel and exhaled to let go of the tension, looking down at himself, seeing the silver sword loosely in his right hand, feeling the throbbing pain from the burn mark on his palm. 

Then he realised that he was standing in a pool of blood, dark red and black reflecting the light of the candles still burning on the tips of the pentagram. It had spread from Geralt's body as he lay motionless on the floor on his side, the silver blade still stuck in the middle of the large wound, deep in his flesh where he had left it. The lines of salt close to where he had fallen were soaking up the blood already, as was his hair, both turning slowly from their original shade of white into a deep and horrific crimson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If the horror is inside of you / how do you get it out?" is a quote from the novel "Gut Symmetries" by the incredible Jeanette Winterson.


	12. You will open your wounds /

The feeling of exhilaration was gone as quickly as it had come as Jaskier returned to reality. Geralt seemed to be unmoving, eyes closed, his face deadly pale in the flickering light of the candles. There was nothing to indicate that he hadn't already died from the copious amount of blood draining from him. 

Jaskier barely needed two steps before he sank to the ground next to Geralt, falling to his knees so fast that the blade of the silver sword he still held in his right hand hit the stone floor with an unpleasant noise. He winced himself at the carelessness, and put it down more gently, placing it next to him on the ground, away from the blood. 

To his sharp relief the noise was enough to make Geralt stir ever so slightly. He frowned, drew a shuddering breath that hinted at the intense pain he had to be in, and cleared his throat. Facing away from Jaskier he slowly moved his arms just a little, stretching them forward, his trembling hands spread out with his palms flat against the stone floor, as if he needed to touch something to keep himself anchored to reality.

"Fuck, Jaskier - " He had to pause for a brief moment, busy with the effort of breathing before continuing. " - it's a silver blade." Another pause. "Careful."

He could barely speak, and didn't open his eyes, but the disapproval was so entirely in character that Jaskier felt the relief almost physically. But it was short-lived. Kneeling closer now Jaskier had a good view of the damage done to Geralt's body, the deep wounds he had slashed all the way into his torso. And he had made good work of it, meticulously and without mercy, taking himself apart like he would any opponent or beast. The large gashes crossed all over his left side, cut liberally and with enough force to drive the blade deep. And it seemed that Geralt had truly managed what Jaskier weeks ago had tried to accomplish. There was no hint of darkened flesh visible anymore, and the thick, black liquid Jaskier had seen ooze from the wounds earlier seemed to have evaporated with the spectre disappearing. 

So all Jaskier was looking at now was crimson blood, slowly drying on Geralt's skin where it was still intact, and the hellish view of openly gaping flesh and cut up muscles. And in the middle of it all remained the dagger, twisted into the torn flesh, plunged deep. Around it blood continued to well up, more slowly now Geralt was lying on his side, but life-threateningly never the less. 

It left Jaskier under no illusion, having seen enough deadly combat and dying men to know that what he looked at was a death sentence for most creatures. There was just no way anyone could come back from this sheer amount of blood loss, from the physical damage, from the way muscles and tissue were torn apart. On a battlefield a soldier this wounded might have been lucky enough to receive a mercy killing at this point, a quick death instead of slow suffering. 

Geralt, however, was no ordinary man, and it was that knowledge that kept Jaskier upright instead of plunging him into deep and immediate despair. But yet he had no idea where to start, how to help. 

But then Eskel appeared, kneeling on the other side of Geralt. He had taken the time Jaskier needed to bang Geralt's silver sword around and then stare in frightful rigour to resheathe his own silver blade and take it off, leaving it somewhere out of sight. Instead he now carried a small wooden chest he had taken from where it had been stored behind the frightful metal construction taking up so much space in the room. 

Without hesitation he knelt in the middle of the blood pooling on the floor, not bothering that it quickly soaked his breeches. He took one look at Geralt and then nodded to himself and opened the small chest. Craning his neck Jaskier saw that it contained everything one would need for a minor surgery, mirroring the shelves in the bathhouse. There was dressing material, clean gauze and neatly folded rags, rolls of silver thread, various bottles filled with those terrible witcher potions capable of performing small miracles. On top of everything lay a long, thin silver dagger Jaskier suddenly realised he had seen before, fitted in a lavishly decorated sheath. It wasn't an ordinary witcher weapon, far removed from the short dagger that Geralt had used for his bloody task, strangely out of place amongst the assortment of tools for healing and mending.

There was everything Jaskier would have packed for exactly the type of injury Geralt was currently dealing with, minus the dagger, and it left very few conclusions to be drawn. 

"You knew this would happen."

Jaskier had tried to sound composed, but his emotions seeped through easily. For a fleeting second he wondered whether the spectre would have considered the shock he felt delicious, but he brushed that thought away with a firm hand. He could deal with his own trauma later, there were more important things at hand.

Eskel didn't even look up. Selecting a potion bottle his hand lingered on the dagger, just a small moment of hesitation before he took it out of the chest. But he did nothing besides tucking it into his belt and turning his attention back to Geralt and in extension Jaskier.

"Of course." 

He sounded very matter-of-fact, and left no time for Jaskier to respond. Looking into his pale face Jaskier noticed his still black eyes, the intense focus, and realised that Eskel was an adrenaline crash waiting to happen. There was no doubt that Jaskier wasn't fit to piece Geralt together, that Eskel was the only one who knew how to deal with this specific outcome of their hunt, and was prepared to see it through. But Jaskier was acutely aware what happened when the effect of the potions faded, how hard the come down could be. Years of experience had taught him to calculate more or less reliably how long Geralt still had until he would come crashing down from the artificial adrenaline high, based on the amount and nature of potions he had taken. But he had not watched Eskel take the potions, and he wasn't familiar with his specific physiology, the way a witcher's body worked that hadn't been put through two mutations. 

He could only assume that their time frame was rather tight, and there was no room for any idle questions. So Jaskier shut his mouth, only nodding once. 

"What can I do?"

He watched Eskel pluck the potion bottle from the chest and handing it over before reaching in again and taking a clean rag.

"Hold that. Nothing else you can do for the moment. Maybe you can later take care of the last sutures, make it a clean scar."

He looked down again, and then pulled his leather gloves off. Dropping them off to the side, this time making sure they wouldn't touch any of the blood on the floor he patted Geralt's shoulder briefly.

"Right. The potion's still doing anything for you?"

As if it were an herculean effort Geralt very slowly turned his head, indicating clearly that it didn't. 

"Well, then, have fun."

Eskel didn't look particularly amused, but apparently decided that there was no time to waste with idle things like painkillers. Bending a little lower he took a good look at the wound on Geralt's side and without hesitation plunged his right hand in. With meticulous care he picked through the wound around the blade still stuck in there, wiping away the fresh blood immediately welling up with the clean rag so he could continue to see what he was doing and looking at. 

It quickly dawned on Jaskier that he wasn't simply torturing Geralt for the fun of it but was checking to see if there was any blackened flesh left. He worked carefully and what at least to Jaskier seemed remotely gently. But it was impossible to ignore how Geralt's body tensed under his hands. Turning his head away he hid his face to his best ability. He made no noise, but the immense pain he was in projected very clearly, and his breathing was soon shallow and much faster than usual. 

Luckily Eskel was happy with what he found quickly, picking around the wound only as long as it was strictly necessary, apparently finding nothing that looked wrong. Withdrawing his hand he wiped the blood welling up away one last time and looked down at Geralt disapprovingly. It was a gruesome sight, his hand covered in crimson liquid shimmering with a glossy quality in the flickering light of the candles. 

"Listen, I told you not to slice through your entire obliques, and especially not that thoroughly. I'll have to stitch all of that up now, you brought it onto yourself. You also cut into your ribs and nicked your hip bone, but there's nothing I can do about that. I can't tell how your lungs are doing, though. You didn't hit them, did you?"

Geralt shook his head, a barely noticeable motion. But his breathing sounded more laboured by the minute, and Eskel wasn't convinced.

"You're not breathing particularly easily. Pain or injury? Turn your head."

Obediently Geralt moved his head, very slowly turning it so he was facing Eskel, his eyes closed. Bending a little over him Eskel examined him closely, in a swift motion swiping the thumb of his clean left hand over his lips and examining it when he pulled his hand back. 

"No blood. So it's the pain, that's good."

Geralt only growled. He lay unmoving, but Jaskier watched with worry as his hands, formerly firmly pressed against the floor, were now clawing at the stones in the pointless attempt to find something to hold onto. 

Eskel wiped his hands on the already drenched rag before dropping it off to the side and exchanging it for a fresh one. Then he looked at Jaskier. 

"Well, then, let's get the blade out. That might be a bit painful."

Jaskier nodded, feeling already a little queasy just from watching. 

"Anything I can do?"

Eskel shrugged, his already bloodied hand hovering above the wound. 

"Nothing much. I'll pull the blade and then have another look at the wound. I can work on my own, it'll be faster." He glanced at Geralt again, noticing the way his hands were digging into the stones. 

"If you want to be useful you can take his head, put it on your legs or wherever to elevate it. Easier to breathe for him and later better for me to sew him up again."

Jaskier nodded and in no time had moved over, with Eskel's help easily manoeuvring Geralt so his head lay on Jaskier's thigh, the slight elevation stretching his spine and loosening his shoulders, stopping his body from twisting as it was leaning forward. He growled slightly at being moved, but otherwise did not complain. While Eskel turned back Jaskier reached out towards Geralt's hands, intending to take them into his own, offering at least that bit of comfort and stopping him from scratching his fingers raw on the stones.

Already bending over the blade Eskel noticed just in time. 

"No, he'll break your hands. Don't let him touch you, not when he's not in control. If you have anything put it into his hands, but that's all you can do."

But Jaskier had nothing on him he could offer. Looking around the room for anything that was close enough nothing caught his eyes. There was the horse blanket, but it was far away still crumpled up inside the pentagram, out of Jaskier's reach. Frustrated he looked down on his own body. He was only wearing the same clothing he had ever since he had rushed down to the basement with Geralt, what now seemed centuries ago. The cerulean tunic was rumpled and sweat-soaked, but even now the bright colour was like a breath of air in the dark basement. 

Staring at it for a second Jaskier came to a quick decision. Without moving more than necessary he slipped out of the tunic, rolled it up and gently placed it into Geralt's hands. He had given no indication he had been aware of what was happening, his eyes still closed, his breathing laboured. But when the bundle touched his hands he immediately grasped for it, abandoning his pointless but painful clawing at the stones. Jaskier shivered in the cold air in his thin undershirt, but he brushed the small discomfort aside easily, watching with satisfaction as Geralt's long fingers closed around the tunic.

Eskel approved of the idea before turning his focus back on his task.

"Fitting use for that thing."

Without further warning he leant forward a little, wrapped his right hand firmly around the hilt of the blade sticking in Geralt's body, and in one steady and slow movement pulled it out. The blood welled up immediately again, but Eskel had a fresh rag prepared and pressed it against the gashes, watching it soak up the blood, turning into a wet red lump. 

It also turned out that warning Jaskier had been a good idea, for there was no doubt that Geralt would have surely broken his hands, or whatever would have been within his reach. Eskel worked swiftly and without dawdling, but the pain from the removal of the blade had to be almost overwhelming. And yet Geralt remained completely silent, only the way his breath hitched and his body tensed up and trembled betraying the intense pain. Jaskier knew his legs would be covered in bruises just from the way Geralt pressed his face against his thighs, out of sight so whatever was happening in his features remained unseen. But his fingers were desperately clawing at the tunic, the cerulean fabric visible between them, ripping easily in his uncontrolled grip. 

Helpless in the knowledge that there was nothing he could do and just because Jaskier needed to put his hands somewhere he used one of them to stabilise himself on the ground and gently placed the other one on Geralt's head. He felt the silver white hair scratch against the burn mark on his palm, resting his fingertips against the pulse point on Geralt's temple, listening to his heart beating too fast but still steady, reliable despite the pain and the terror. 

And it was all Jaskier could do while watching Eskel quickly discard the small blade, soak up the blood to his best ability and then examine the now enlarged wounds further. Both hands deep inside the open gashes he continued to look for poisoned skin, sorted through the torn muscles, arranged the tissue so it could be mended again. 

He was deeply focused on what he was doing, and it was dreadful work that he yet did with calm and steady hands. When he finally sat back on his heels for a brief moment his arms were smeared with blood, red dripping from his hands. The contrast between his pale face with the black eyes and the red covering his arms and hands made him appear much more severe and threatening than Jaskier had ever seen him before. 

"Where's the potion I gave you?"

Picking it up from where he had put it Jaskier handed the small vial over, watched Eskel snap off the cork with one hand and then carefully pour the dark liquid into the wound. The smell of burnt flesh rose immediately, aggravating even Jaskier's meagre human senses. Geralt hissed on the impact, his fingers digging deeper into the already ripped fabric, tearing it further. 

Eskel seemed unmoved. He simply put the empty bottle down, reached into the chest and picked up silver thread and needle. He briefly looked at Jaskier before turning back to the task at hand.

"Tell me when he loses consciousness, and when he does, track if he keeps on breathing."

And then he started the slow and tedious procedure of carefully and very meticulously stitching tissue and muscles together, both hands buried deep inside the wounds again, mending what had been torn by the silver blade. Jaskier could do nothing but watch, his free hand pointlessly buried in Geralt's hair, feeling him tremble with the pain, the increasing tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were helplessly buried in the remains of the tunic. 

It seemed to take forever. Eskel was focused beyond the point where Jaskier thought focus was possible, his entire concentration on the way his hands worked steadily through the gaping wounds. He had started to hum under his breath after a while, a sound Jaskier recognised from the days of his illness. His mind went back to the moment Eskel had given him the potion he had made, how he had helped him to sit upright and kept him gently held against his chest, humming just as quietly as now. Back then Jaskier had considered it to be nothing but a sign that Eskel was bored and needed to pass time, stupidly not recognising healing magic when it took place, having at that point had no idea what exactly Eskel had meant when he had said he had just a little more magic than most witchers did. 

Eskel was barely done with half of the first of the two large crossed gashes when Geralt dropped into unconsciousness, his hands cramped around the tunic relaxing. His too fast heartbeat slowed down immediately as the tension evaporated, leaving his suddenly heavy body slightly leaning forward, more of his weight sinking against Jaskier. It was impossible to tell if the blood loss was what had finally, mercifully knocked him out or if Eskel's humming had an edge to it that was beyond Jaskier's understanding.

Jaskier cleared his throat and Eskel looked up briefly before returning to his work, not interrupting neither the humming nor the steady movement of his hands. 

And whatever Eskel was doing with that strange humming, it worked on Jaskier as well. Slowly he felt relaxation crawl into his body, his own frantic heartbeat, so much faster than Geralt's had ever been, slowing slightly, the adrenaline coursing in his body dropping, leaving room for a sense of peace that was downright confusing giving the fact where he was, what he was doing. There was still the terrifying pool of blood around them, and the painful work Eskel was doing, the fact that Geralt was not relaxed from sleep but unconscious, probably caught in whatever net it was Eskel was weaving around him, and yet Jaskier suddenly felt lighter, more optimistic.

Time didn't seem to pass and yet it did. Eskel worked tirelessly and Jaskier sat and looked on, and around them the candles burnt down and the blood on the floor slowly started to dry. 

Eskel was almost done when the door behind them opened and Vesemir appeared. His steps were almost noiseless on the stone floor, and Jaskier wouldn't have noticed him coming if the draught from the corridor hadn't sent the candles aflutter, their dancing light casting long shadows. 

He didn't seem surprised at what he was seeing. In a few steps he had crossed the room, and knelt opposite of Eskel, setting down the bucket of water and bowl he had been carrying. He cast a glance up and down over Geralt's body, his eyes lingering on Jaskier's hand buried in the silver white hair for a moment, on the cerulean fabric still in Geralt's now opened hands. Then he focused on the wounds and Eskel's hands working. For a moment he simply knelt there, watching Eskel finish his work. 

And then he was done. Pulling the thread through muscles one final time Eskel finally pulled his hands back as the hum died away slowly, fading out in the silence of the large room. Vesemir took the needle and thread from his hands without being prompted to. Taking a few deep breaths himself Eskel straightened his back, his hands smeared with slowly drying blood dropping onto his own knees.

Vesemir said nothing. Instead he turned, dipped the bowl into the bucket with fresh water and reached over Geralt towards the small chest. Picking a fresh rag and leaning back he soaked it with the clean water, and started to clean the skin around the wounds, wiping away the blood carefully, with a casualness as if he had never done anything else all his life and needed no explanation about what had happened here that had ended with them all on the floor like this. His face remained completely empty, his eyes dark from his pupils blown wide in the darkness. And yet his hands were gentle in their precise movements, his intention to cause no unnecessary pain obvious.

When he was done and the wounds and surrounding skin as clean as possible he put the cloth away and looked up back at Eskel. 

Jaskier followed his gaze and realised that Eskel hadn't moved for the entire time it had taken Vesemir to clean the wounds, and for a reason. The adrenaline crash Jaskier had foreseen had truly happened, probably coupled with the effort of tending to the wounds while using magic. His hands rested heavily on his knees where he had put them, and he was leaning slightly forward, slumped in exhaustion. His eyes were amber again, his skin back to its normal shade albeit pale with exhaustion, the side of his face where the circular scar sat drooping just a little. 

Vesemir nodded at nothing in particular, leant forward and towards the chest and picked a potion from there. Breaking the seal on the small bottle he started to carefully drip the yellow liquid into Geralt's wounds, the thick, soft flowery scent immediately taking Jaskier back to the bathhouse to a moment that seemed now so far away he could hardly believe it had been not so very long ago. 

Done with the potion Vesemir put the bottle back on the floor again. For a moment he seemed to ponder his options, and then again reached for a clean cloth. Dipping it into the water from the bucket he waited until it was properly soaked, twisted it once so it wasn't dripping and then turned back. He held out his hands long enough for Eskel to wake up from his stupor, slowly shaking his head to return to reality. With more patience than Jaskier had thought Vesemir would possess he waited until Eskel realised what he wanted. Then Eskel moved, very slowly raising his hands and holding them out, and Vesemir carefully cleaned the blood away from his fingers and wrists, all the way up to his elbows until most if it was gone. Turning away to discard the now dirtied rag Vesemir picked up a clean one instead, and pressed it into Eskel's palms.

"Dry your hands."

As if moving on strings Eskel obeyed, but he didn't seem to be fully present. With a sigh Vesemir looked at Jaskier. 

"I heard you're good with a needle and thread." 

As always feeling slightly caught out when Vesemir looked at him Jaskier nodded. 

"Good. You can switch places with Eskel and do the final work. Geralt said the wounds you stitch heal well. With scars this size he might favour that."

It took a little shuffling and work, especially since Eskel moved at the speed of a sleepwalker, with all the excess adrenaline of the potion drained from his body, leaving him heavy and strangely clumsy. But Vesemir had a no-nonsense approach, easily lifting Geralt's head from Jaskier and directing everyone to their new places. Picking through the chest looking for a needle fine enough for the neat suture he intended to produce Jaskier registered out of the corner of his eyes how Eskel exactly mimicked Jaskier's former position, one of his unsteady hands behind him, the other resting on Geralt’s head, trembling fingers entwined into dirty silver white hair. 

Briefly he remembered sitting in that wretched tavern all those weeks ago and listening to Geralt swear that witchers didn't have family relations, and he compared that blatant lie to what he was seeing now, wondering if Geralt's lie was a conscious effort or not, and if yes why he was doing it. But he didn't have time to follow the thought through, finding a suitable needle and thread. 

"I need more light than you do, I can't see in the dark." 

He didn't look up, but to his surprise Vesemir was gone in an instant and when Jaskier was done preparing the silver thread came back with a torch. It wasn't ideal but as good as it would get, and Jaskier bent low over the wounds, pushing the needle through ripped skin. He worked in complete silence besides the odd cracking noise from the torch Vesemir was holding and, somehow, the regular and almost inaudible sound of Geralt breathing that Jaskier felt more than he heard it, his ribcage slowly expanding and contracting under Jaskier's hands, his skin cool to the touch.

It took what felt like a very long time, Jaskier trying to work as diligently as possible, keeping the stitches as small as he was able to on a wound like this. Finally he was left with two sutures sneaking down Geralt's side, looking quite terrible but for what was hidden underneath rather well-done, maybe the best ones Jaskier had ever done. He pulled the thread through pale skin one final time, tied a small knot and looked around for something to cut the thread off with. It was Vesemir who suddenly gave him a small knife, and Jaskier took it, cut off the remaining thread, and was done. 

Straightening his spine again he felt his back throb with the pain of sitting bent forward for what might have just been hours. His head hurt, his shoulders were so tense he could barely relax them anymore, and there was a low pain throbbing in the base of his spine. His legs had fallen asleep long ago from his uncomfortable position. 

But it was an acceptable price to pay for the result, and as he looked down at Geralt once more he found that the scars would probably not look too bad, given that some butchered ones had been in the same spot previously that now at least were covered by the much cleaner sutures Jaskier had produced. Geralt would carry those forever now, everything that had happened in this room carved into his skin, together with the memory of Eskel's healing hands and Jaskier's careful mending that had complimented each other to put him together again. The next time he'd blurt one of his ridiculous statements about being alone he'd simply need to look at his own body to realise his errors, maybe understand and even repent. 

Dropping his hands on his knees just like Eskel had done earlier Jaskier looked up, straight into Vesemir's face who was still kneeling opposite of him, perfectly still, as if he were nothing but a pale statue. This close up he looked even more terrifying, the fitful flames from the torch casting long shadows over his ancient face. In the meantime Eskel seemed to have fallen into a trancelike silence, unmoving, apparently focused on his breathing, tired beyond measure. With his empty face and slumped shoulders he suddenly looked his many years, the usual veneer of cheerfulness gone, revealing that underneath it the decades that always seemed to burden Geralt so heavily hadn't passed him as untouched as he always pretended. 

Jaskier had never felt this young before, this lightweight despite his painful exhaustion and worry, realising once more that human life was nothing but a feather in the wind compared to these pillars of stone, that he'd be gone before they even noticed a year had passed. And yet they weren't immortal and would die themselves, gone in the blink of an eye, stone crumbling as easily as the walls of Kaer Morhen had fallen. He had always known that everything was only fleeting, but for a moment he felt dizzy, as if he was looking into an abyss, finding it dark and without end. 

Vesemir's voice cut through his spiralling thoughts, grounding him immediately. 

"Good. Put the needle and thread away, and then we'll go upstairs."

Jaskier felt himself obeying the order easily, returning the needle to the chest, neatly putting the thread away. In the meantime Vesemir leant over, and none too gently slapped Eskel in the face. 

With a start Eskel came back to reality, pulling his hands up from where they had rested, rubbing his face. He looked confused for a moment, as if he wasn't quite sure where he was, and Jaskier realised that he had retreated into meditation, probably sinking too fast too low in his exhaustion. 

"Get up."

Eskel nodded, and looked down to where Geralt's head was resting on his thighs. He was still solidly knocked out, breathing regularly but otherwise completely unmoving. Briefly Jaskier wondered if they were just leaving Geralt down here, waiting until he'd wake up lying in a dried up pool of his own blood in the cold darkness. But it was clear that Vesemir had completely different plans. He held the torch out for Jaskier to take, and without ado gathered Geralt's body in his arms and stood up. The bundle of cerulean blue fabric Geralt had held in his hands the entire time fell to the floor, unfolding on its way down, fluttering slightly.

Vesemir already turned to leave. He seemed completely unfazed by the sheer weight he was carrying, lifting Geralt as easily as if he weighed nothing, and briefly Jaskier wondered what Vesemir was capable of when he was fighting. It was common knowledge that monsters had been bigger and more dangerous in the very early days after the conjunction of the spheres, and if Vesemir had been created to battle these then he was necessarily build differently than the later witchers were, who didn't have to face that exact same horror anymore. It left Jaskier wondering if that was why he was pushing Geralt so mercilessly all the time, not because he was eternally dissatisfied, but because he saw a strength he knew, something familiar he recognised too well and knew only one way to deal with.

Standing up himself Jaskier felt the blood return to his legs painfully, for a moment wondering if he'd just drop to the floor again. But he had time to shake his legs out, as Eskel needed what seemed like forever to pick himself up from the floor, standing up slowly, moving stiffly as if his entire body hurt. Stalking around the metal table he collected his silver sword, slinging it over his shoulder where it belonged. He picked up Geralt's sword in the same manner, an automatic gesture, nothing he had to think about. 

Finally they moved, Jaskier carrying the torch, blowing out the candles as they passed by. He was the last one out of the room, looking back once and observing the battlefield they left behind. There was still the pentagram, now disturbed with the salt scattered around, the horse blanket a crumpled heap inside the former star. The pool of blood was by now almost completely dried, dark and disturbing on the stone floor, the small silver blade Geralt had used to cut the spectre loose from himself lying in the middle of it, the silver still catching the last light of the torch. Leaving the room Jaskier took the fire with him, leaving the room again to the uninhabited darkness.

Their sad procession moved through the corridor slowly, Eskel leading the way like a sleepwalker, Vesemir carrying Geralt following. When they reached the stairs Jaskier suddenly remembered the memory the spectre had shown him, the moments immediately after the first trials, Vesemir picking Geralt up from where he'd fallen on the stairs, a mirror image of what he was seeing now with a few little twists, but almost as much blood. Musing if their personal histories always had to repeat themselves Jaskier followed Vesemir up the stairs, through the other lower corridor and up the second staircase into the entrance hall. 

There it was suddenly day, the last light of the evening sun coming through the opened door, and Jaskier realised that while they had spent the entire day downstairs in the basement, the fight and ensuing damage control hadn't even taken half as long as he had thought. He extinguished the torch and left it next to the staircase down, turning back to the entrance hall just in time to watch Lambert stroll through the main door. He looked like he had come in from the stables, given he was carrying the girth from his saddle slung over his shoulders. Once again Jaskier was hit by the realisation how breathtakingly normal Lambert looked, especially compared to their little procession reappearing from the depth of the basement in various states of wear and tear. 

"What the fuck?"

Stopping dead in his tracks Lambert could do nothing but stare, first at Eskel fully armoured with remains of Geralt's blood still all over him, Jaskier in his undershirt smeared with blood himself, and finally Vesemir carrying Geralt like an overgrown and heavily injured rag doll. Lambert seemed completely incapable of comprehending what he was looking at, and Jaskier realised that they simply hadn't told him, that Eskel and Geralt had decided to keep their impending battle to themselves, involving Vesemir in the planning but keeping Lambert and probably also Coën out of the loop. 

"How - "

Lambert stopped mid sentence, staring at Geralt, obviously incapable of making sense of what he was seeing. But it became clear what Lambert was thinking when Jaskier saw his eyes widen suddenly just a little, his face paling just a bit. From the way Geralt's body was hanging lifelessly in Vesemir's arms, covered in blood with the ugly sutures an angry red, his head dangling at an odd angle, deadly pale and eyes closed, his hair dark with dried blood there was no way for Lambert to know that Geralt wasn't dead. Feeling the emotion as if it were happening in his own chest Jaskier watched him grapple with what he was seeing, with the realisation that Geralt had died in the basement in a fight they hadn't even told him about.

Vesemir stopped briefly, and Lambert made an involuntary movement forwards, raising a hand as if he wanted to touch what to him was Geralt's corpse, his face softening. Eskel, suddenly awaking from his stupor in a strange burst of energy, cleared his throat. 

"Don't cry just yet, he's perfectly alive and I think he'll stay that way."

Just for a second longer Lambert stood staring, his hand still reaching out, poised to touch but never doing it. Then he pulled his arm back quickly, straightened himself, the scowl back on his face. 

"And here I was thinking you'd finally come to your senses and stuck your sword into him. Pity, indeed."

With that he turned around and marched off, trying to hide the sentiment he'd displayed for just a moment, and for the first time Jaskier felt sorry for him. 

"You could put that energy into cleaning the basement, if you've got nothing to do."

Lambert was already gone through the archway down towards the kitchen, and Jaskier was sure he heard him tell Eskel to go and fuck himself under his breath before vanishing. Eskel returned to his state of numb stupor instead of answering, the short burst of energy evaporating as quickly as it had come. 

They continued their way undisturbed from then on, finally arriving in Geralt's room where Vesemir put him down on the bed, carefully arranging him so he lay on his right side, head on the pillow. Jaskier, having another flashback to memories that weren't his own, made it into the room and collapsed into the armchair without bothering anymore for decorum. Eskel placed Geralt's silver sword on one of the shelves and then just stood around the room pointlessly, apparently incapable of moving anymore or making any decisions. 

It was Vesemir who kept busy, putting wood on the fire so the room would warm, picking the small chest Geralt kept on his shelves up and going through the collection of potion bottles in there, finding more clean rags neatly stacked next to the washing bowl. But he didn't make use of any of these things, simply putting them onto the small table next to the bed so they could be used soon and were easy to find. Then he straightened, briefly looked at Jaskier slumped in the armchair like he had no solid bone left in his body, and to the stiff figure of Eskel. 

"Go to bed, you're no longer needed here." 

Nodding slowly Eskel seemed to comprehend, but remained unable to move. With a sigh Vesemir came closer to him, for a very brief moment resting a hand on his shoulder. 

"You've done well. Now rest."

It was maybe the nicest thing Jaskier had ever heard Vesemir say, and from the way Eskel suddenly stared at him that maybe was true for Eskel as well. He blinked in confusion, and then with a sigh nodded. He turned to leave, but then hesitated for a moment, as if he realised that he had forgotten something. Turning back towards Vesemir he pulled the slim silver dagger he had taken from the chest earlier from his belt. Holding it out he offered it to Vesemir, his hands still unsteady but trembling a bit less violently than they had down in the basement. 

"I'll assume it wasn't you who put this into the chest I prepared."

Vesemir looked at the dagger for a moment and then took it slowly, weighing it in his hands. 

"Indeed it wasn't me."

Nodding slowly, as if his head was very heavy Eskel looked briefly over to the bed where Geralt was resting motionlessly. 

"Why did you give it to him?"

Tucking the dagger into his belt Vesemir raised an eyebrow.

"He was worried. So was I. We agreed it might be useful."

Without warning Jaskier felt his stomach twist painfully, finally realising the message that dagger had been, why Eskel's hands had lingered on it just for a second too long. 

"And you both thought I would do it this time?"

Eskel sounded nothing but tired, matter-of-fact, but Jaskier knew what he meant, realising for the first time that the spectre had not only twisted Geralt's memory from his grasp against his will but also revealed more about Eskel than Jaskier was ever supposed to know. 

Vesemir's gaze was still resting on Eskel, cool, detached. 

"He trusted you to do the right thing, to make the appropriate decision. We both agreed you'd do your job, properly and with a clear head, as a witcher does."

For a moment Jaskier thought Eskel would say something. But instead he simply turned around and without a word left the room, taking his exhaustion with him like a dark cloud. 

Vesemir followed moments later, saying nothing but at least nodding at Jaskier, leaving him alone with Geralt passed out on the bed and his thoughts. Outside the sun was setting quickly, but Jaskier was so exhausted he could barely think. He just remained sitting in the armchair, legs stretched out, head leant back, feeling the tiredness spreading through his body. It had been a very, very long day even though it was barely evening. 

But it was over now, the day almost and the battle for sure, and it seemed they had won after all. This time the realisation was not accompanied by the exhilaration he had felt immediately after the fight, with the weight of the sword still in his hands. Raising his right arm slowly, surprised at how heavy it was he examined the burn mark on his palm idly.

It was bright red, throbbing when he poked it. The outline of the wolf head was still visible, and Jaskier wondered whether it would remain, whether he'd have the imprint of the medallion burnt into his palm for the rest of his life now. It was a fleeting thought, untethered while gliding through his mind, and it wasn't bothering him particularly, or at least not as much as it should have. He was fairly certain he'd be able to move his hand fully again soon, that things would be alright, and it was that final thought that lingered. It stayed like a promise, warm and comfortable, and he wouldn't have minded if it had decided to remain there forever. 

Eventually the small part of him that was still awake reminded him that he was sitting slumped in the armchair, and that he'd fall sleep right there and then if he didn't move very soon. But his body was so heavy, so unwilling. Briefly Jaskier wondered if he should get up and go down to the kitchen, find food after not having eaten all day. But he was hesitant to leave the room, even though there was no point in remaining. Geralt was knocked out, and Melitele only knew when he'd return to consciousness, how long it would take. They were on familiar ground now, as Jaskier had spent hours and hours watching him sleep an injury off, passed out wherever he had managed to take himself, be it a cave in the wildness or a bed in an inn. He'd sleep and sleep, pulled under by a potion he'd managed to take or simple exhaustion and his body forcing his mind into unconsciousness to aid the recovery process, a mechanism he was entirely unable to fight once it had started to set in. 

The solution to the problem was obvious, and Jaskier did what he always did when the situation no longer required damage control.

With a lot of willpower he forced himself up, needing the armrests of the chair to give himself a push until he was standing straight. With slow and clumsy motions he kicked off his boots and undressed all the way down to his smallclothes, abandoning any idea to search for food and instead deciding to rather find some peace and rest. Careful not to touch Geralt he crawled into the bed, having the blanket all to himself as Vesemir had made sure that Geralt lay uncovered. With the ease of having done it many times in the past Jaskier arranged his body so he wouldn't disturb Geralt or touch the wounds, making do without the pillow that was stuffed under Geralt's head. 

Inching closer Jaskier sighed. The situation was far from ideal, both of them being dirty, dried sweat and blood on their bodies, Geralt's hair a mess Jaskier would have thought disgusting any other day. But like this, after all those past weeks of distance and the gnawing need for touch it felt like they had finally returned to normal, as if the spectre hadn't really been gone before and only was properly exorcised now with Jaskier reclaiming the closeness they'd shared over all these years. He inhaled deeply, once or twice, and then leant slowly forward, feeling the muted buzz of the contact spell at the first moment of touch, realising how much he had missed this feeling. Closing his eyes he rested his forehead in the space between Geralt's shoulder blades where a neat long scar sat permanently stitched into the pale skin. Jaskier fell asleep feeling nothing but that point of skin contact and the reassuring way Geralt's regular breathing moved his body, steady and calming, reliable like his heartbeat.

Jaskier slept deep and soundly, and awoke the next morning comfortably curled up in the warm bed. Feeling refreshed for the first time in weeks he kept his eyes closed and stretched, and as he raised his arms over his head accidentally hit his hand against a shoulder. 

Geralt growled a little, and Jaskier was wide awake with a start. Opening his eyes he stared at Geralt's back, muscles pulled tight over bones, the skin marred by various types of old scars already well known, familiar territory. But from close up he also now noticed the fresh burn marks on Geralt's lower back, one on each side, and another one higher up, all of them shaped perfectly round and an angry red. And despite the attempts to clean most of the blood off him Vesemir had missed a myriad of bloodstains that had dried to a deep brown, some smeared, some perfectly oval shaped, and on closer inspection a few of them turned out to be fingerprints. Examining one close to where he had leant against Geralt for the night Jaskier wondered who had left that specific one, unable to tell if it had been Eskel, Vesemir or himself. He gently pressed his index finger against it, wondering if it would fit, but couldn't come to a conclusion. Geralt stirred at the touch, just a little, as if it were difficult for him to move at all. The sutures on his side were bright red against his pale skin, ugly and painful looking. 

Pushing himself up Jaskier looked down, watched Geralt slowly turn his head, and blink. Weak daylight was falling into the room, an early morning sunrise in Kaedwen winter, barely blinding and still enough to make Geralt frown against it. 

Jaskier had to clear his throat, his voice still thick with sleep.

"Good morning."

Geralt blinked again, and then turned his head back, letting it fall heavily against the pillow. Closing his eyes he exhaled slowly, controlled, and Jaskier needed nothing else to understand that he was still in a lot of pain. It wasn't particularly surprising, given the sheer severity of the wounds, the thick sutures pulling the skin tight. Of course they would take longer to heal, and Jaskier wasn't sure what he had expected. That Geralt would sleep it all off and then rise in the morning, ready to return to life as it had been? It would take days, even with the help of more potions and at the unusual healing speed his mutated body possessed. 

Geralt's voice pulled him from his musings, hoarse and unusually faint. 

"You're alright?"

He hadn't opened his eyes again and spoke barely above a whisper, but it was enough to make Jaskier stare down at him dumbfounded, and then snort. Of course that was what Geralt would ask first, nevermind the fact that he had just had a very solid near-death experience, that he couldn't move without the pain flaring up, that he was teetering on the brink of unconsciousness again. 

"Absolutely, never been better. And how's things with you?"

Humming instead of a reply Geralt nodded in slow-motion, and remained silent. Jaskier could easily pinpoint the moment he drifted back into sleep again, his breathing evening out once more, body losing the tension it held. Reaching out Jaskier brushed a hand over his shoulders, gently and carefully, but not bothering whether he'd wake Geralt or not. The spell the spectre had cast upon them had been broken and the walls fallen, and now Jaskier felt the need for contact and connection so strong that it was almost overwhelming. He was careful, of course, but he knew there were things that didn't bother Geralt anymore, the familiar gestures of their hard-won intimacy that Jaskier had implemented into their friendship over the years and by now both were used to. 

So it was with the knowledge that Geralt didn't mind that Jaskier settled down again, stretching once more just a little before curling up, returning to the way he had slept before, his forehead gently leant against Geralt's back, eyes closed contently. He was gone in an instant, and slept until he was woken by noises in the room and a thick, flowery scent spreading. 

It was Vesemir who was banging potion bottles around, unbothered by the fact that Jaskier was half-naked in Geralt's bed but adamant that he'd need to take care of the sutures, essentially kicking Jaskier out. He knew better than to complain, and while Geralt stirred slowly and needed some time before he fully realised what was happening Jaskier slipped out of bed, put on his clothing and retired to his own rooms. 

Half an hour later Jaskier stumbled into the kitchen, having made good use of the bucket of water he had found in his room, dressed in fresh clothes and now for the first time in what felt like weeks was halfway clean and at least slightly put together. It felt wonderful, with his hair brushed neatly and set in place, his tunic warm and clean. Only his boots were still showing traces of what had happened the previous day, spots of blood having left dark marks on the already worn leather he had been incapable of getting out. 

In the kitchen everything was just like it had been before. The fire was burning bright, the pot of kasha was reliably full, it was warm and homely. The only unusual thing was that the entire population of Kaer Morhen minus one was assembled around the table, sitting behind their already empty bowls, tankards of hot cider in front of them. It stopped Jaskier in his tracks for a moment, but then he simply continued, collected his own breakfast and marched over to the bench. Coën moved voluntarily, making space for Jaskier, and he sat opposite of Vesemir, nodding once at everyone. Coën gave the pot with the cherries a nudge into Jaskier's direction, and Jaskier didn't need to be asked twice. He spooned the cherries liberally over his kasha, added a dollop of honey and plunged his spoon deep into the lovely mixture. It felt good in his stomach, warming him from the inside in the most pleasurable way. 

He was on the way of stuffing the second spoon into his mouth when he realised that there was silence around the table and everyone seemed to look at him. He didn't let it deter him, finishing the movement, chewing with some enjoyment and only asking after gulping everything down. 

"Alright, who'll tell me what's up here?"

Coën volunteered quickly. 

"Did you really attack the spectre with Geralt's sword?"

He sounded as if he couldn't believe Jaskier to be so brazen, but Jaskier couldn't help but shrug. 

"Sure."

He looked at Vesemir, who's face was as expressionless as usual, and then to Eskel, who only raised an eyebrow. 

"I told him you did, he just couldn't believe it."

Turning to Coën feeling slightly offended Jaskier frowned. 

"But why wouldn't I? I mean, the sword was there, it made sense to use it."

Coën looked at Lambert next to him, who wasn't appearing as if he agreed with the whole idea. 

"Maybe we can't believe it because it's so incredibly moronic. The idiocy of Geralt giving his silver sword out of his hands in a battle, nobody in their right mind would do that. And handing it to a human!"

Eskel snorted. 

"Of course he was out of his mind, have you mentally battled a higher spectre for weeks on your own while it was clawing its way through your body? You wouldn't be sitting here. Geralt knew what he was doing, and Jaskier's strike gave me leverage in the fight at just the exact proper moment." 

He nodded approvingly at Jaskier, just as he had done in the basement after the fight. Lambert shook his head vehemently. 

"Humans shouldn't get their hands on our silver swords, no matter the circumstances. It was a tactical error, a grave one at that, and I can't understand why Geralt with decades of fighting experience would do something that stupid. If he always fought with that much carelessness he'd be dead long ago, but maybe he's just extraordinarily lucky." 

Growling a little Lambert looked at Vesemir, waiting for him to say something, while Eskel rolled his eyes and Jaskier briefly wondered if he should break it to Lambert that while he didn't exactly go into battle with Geralt's weapons every day he had handled them before, including the silver sword which Geralt repeatedly had left with Jaskier for safe-keeping.

"I think I know why he did it, and I understand." 

Coën looked at Jaskier from the side, his green eyes unusually warm, full of understanding. His dark green tunic had a slightly deeper neckline, just enough to display the fact that he was wearing two silver chains, the griffin head sitting on top of the garment, the wolf head hidden underneath it. Tilting his head slightly in recognition Jaskier looked down at his bowl. Then Coën turned to Lambert. 

"And would you have known how to fight a higher spectre? I've barely heard of them before, just rumours, so it's not like going into fighting a manticore or a cockatrice, or even a dracolizard big has a castle where you know what you're getting yourself into. Even fighting wraiths or ghouls or anything, well, you know what that is. But a higher spectre? I didn't even know they could possess two people at the same time."

Eskel nodded, and then Vesemir finally took the conversation over, probably to end the petty bickering. 

"It is rare, but then higher spectres are some of the most seldom encountered beings and we don't know much about them. They can move between the spheres, using magic of unknown character to achieve their ends. Nobody knows what they look like in their original form, but here in our world they need to anchor themselves in a living body to draw nourishment from its life essence. Even I haven't met one before, but I've heard stories from Barmin back in the days when he tutored me."

Jaskier, while still listening, was happy the conversation had drifted away from his use of the silver sword and he could continue to enjoy his breakfast. Lambert looked at him briefly and then back at Vesemir, wrinkling his nose. 

"Spectres, higher or not, need to be battled with silver, and Igni, not with whatever blood magic you two performed down there yesterday."

He said it matter-of-factly, but Eskel snorted and got up to refill his tankard, taking Vesemir's along while he was at it. 

"Sure, lecture me on how to fight and then I'll tell you what we did yesterday, and how well it worked."

Coën yawned, and placed his elbows on the table. 

"I don't think I've met many spectres before. Sure, banshees and noonwraiths and an ethereal once, but that was already slightly wild. I haven't encountered a hym once in all these years. Odd, wouldn't you think?"

Eskel returned to the table and put the tankards down, sliding Vesemir's over to him. 

"No, why should it be odd? You've done in many a griffin and I haven't seen one in my life. A few hyms, though, those I know. And now I can cross a higher spectre off my list!"

He briefly crossed his arms behind his head and looked rather smug, having probably won the Secret Witcher League Jaskier was by now convinced they were keeping up and running in one fell swoop. Lambert rolled his eyes. 

"Considering it apparently took a human with a silver sword to help you it probably wasn't your best fight."

There was murder in Eskel's eyes and Jaskier hastily crammed another spoonful of kasha into his mouth before he could say anything. Vesemir only sighed. 

"Nobody took the thing down, you just pushed it back to the place it had come from. They can cross between spheres, as I said, but they can't stay long if they are not anchored in a host. Geralt cut it free, Eskel pushed it back. It still exists, but not in our world anymore. You can't kill a higher spectre, as far as I know."

Frowning Eskel took his arms down again, picking up his tankard and sipping the hot cider. 

"Well, it still counts on my list."

Coën, ignoring half of the conversation happening around him as he sometimes did, looked at Vesemir. 

"So is it related to a hym, this higher spectre?"

But Vesemir only shrugged. 

"We figured it was at least slightly similar. Hyms live between the spheres as well, and just like the spectre could they connect to the mind of their host. The difference is that a hym is nurtured by guilt, while the spectre seemed to live off general emotions and was capable of splitting itself in two hosts. The symptoms, however, were slightly similar. The victim of a hym becomes restless and cannot find sleep, sees or hears things, might grow weak and could be driven either into madness or suicide."

Nothing in that list sounded particularly enticing, but for a moment Jaskier was mostly glad that Vesemir didn't mention that the general emotion the spectre had been feasting on had mostly been love, in whatever form it sat within Jaskier's far too big human heart. He didn't want Lambert to pick that apart, to mock him, didn't want to defend what he was feeling.

Eskel nodded and picked up where Vesemir stopped. 

"That's why we didn't simply exorcise Jaskier in the way a mage would. Well, we could have tried, but we'd have needed to do it with Geralt as well and everybody knows you can't exorcise a witcher. So we decided to go the traditional way, including the pentagram. And what can I say, worked like a charm."

Jaskier wasn't sure whether Geralt nearly bleeding to death was exactly the epitome of their tactic having worked like a charm, but at least the spectre was gone indeed, so he supposed Eskel wasn't technically wrong. 

Lambert still wasn't convinced. 

"So you have a lot of emotions, uh?"

He looked at Jaskier, leaning forward so he could see past Coën, and Jaskier could do nothing against the blush appearing on his face, hiding his sudden insecurity behind another spoon of kasha and a shrug. It was Vesemir who answered. 

"He's human, Lambert, of course he does." Then he looked around the table. 

"And why are you all idling around the kitchen now? Get out, don't sit around lazily."

That cut the discussion mercifully short, and scattered everyone to their various tasks, including Eskel and Vesemir himself, who went down into the basement to see what could be salvaged there, and clean up. Jaskier, glad he didn't have to join them, finished his breakfast and returned upstairs, first to his room and then to visit Geralt. 

He found the room warm from the fire, Geralt still where Jaskier had left him stretched out on the bed, asleep on his side. Apparently Vesemir had helped him clean himself a bit more, tie back his dirty hair and undress, and he was now at least partially covered by a blanket pulled up to his hips. There was a wet rag draped over the sutures, and Jaskier immediately recognised the flowery scent from the healing potion. Settling in the armchair he placed the book with elven poetry he had picked up from his room in his lap and opened it. He had barely read half of it and ever since he had felt the effects of the spectre's claws digging through him had barely found time to focus. 

So he dived into the poems and music with great enjoyment now, finally finding the peace of mind and patience to let the words sink, to allow his mind to unfold and turn the written word into splendid songs in his head. For the first time in weeks the music appeared by itself again, not forced or dragged out but in the natural way it always had, slowly unfolding its eternal and breathtaking beauty. 

Deeper and deeper he sank into the world the poems conjured in front of his eyes, unburdened by worry and fear. The words were beautiful, the poems perfect in their pacing and rhythm, begging to be sung, to be brought to life by a voice and woken from the centuries of slumber. 

He didn't realise immediately when his reading slipped from silent enjoyment into recitation, but when he did he cast a glance at the bed, found Geralt still fast asleep and simply allowed himself to continue his quiet performance. It soothed his soul tremendously, and he supposed he deserved just a little bit of indulgence now after having been practically muted by all the pressure of the spectre sucking his soul dry. Now he could feel it swell in his chest again, a flutter of enjoyment, and without holding back he simply gave himself over to the pull, slipped into the river of words and allowed the songs to carry him away. 

Losing track of time he had no idea how long he had recited the poetry and hummed the melodies when he looked up between two pages and found Geralt silently looking at him. He had barely moved, using his right arm to support his head a little. But he was fully awake, his eyes clear, with no trace of confusion and just a hint of the earlier fatigue. Only the frown on his forehead remained, though Jaskier didn't know if it came from the fact that the recitation had woken him or if it was testament to the pain. For a moment they just looked at each other, and when Jaskier tried a careful smile he was astonished to find a hint of a smile tug at Geralt's thin lips in return.

"I didn't intend to wake you."

Geralt hummed a reply, shifting just a little in his bed, pushing his head up a bit. It was clear that his range of motion was severely impacted, and Jaskier remembered Eskel complaining that he had cut through most of his lateral abdominal muscles, which would explain why he seemed barely capable of keeping his head propped up at the moment. 

"Somehow I always forget how impeccable your elder speech is." 

Rolling his eyes Jaskier placed a hand on the book, looking down at the elder runes, the script beautifully undulating on the page in elegant letters. 

"Well, considering you sound like you're trying to scare children when you use elder speech that's understandable. Also I may or may not have spent a couple of years in Oxenfurt and actually studied there instead of just drinking and sleeping my way through town, even though I must admit the latter two things did play a major role in my student days."

Geralt snorted, and immediately regretted it judging from the way he winced at the way it moved his ribcage. Jaskier leant forward. 

"Are you in pain? Anything I can do?"

Exhaling carefully Geralt shook his head slowly. 

"It will heal. I admit talking doesn't help."

Nodding Jaskier took the hand from the page and leant back in his chair again. 

"Luckily being quiet shouldn't be hard for you. Go back to sleep, I can read in silence." 

Looking at the book and back at Geralt he watched him slowly move again, freeing his arm and dropping his head on the pillow. He stretched out ever so slightly, wincing at every movement. Then he closed his eyes. 

"No, go on. It's beautiful."

Jaskier nearly dropped the book. He had never doubted that Geralt enjoyed the music up to a certain degree, but he had never before admitted to like it, to consider it beautiful, not in ten years of friendship. 

"Wait, are you still possessed?"

He watched Geralt's eyebrow climb higher, but he didn't open his eyes again. 

"Enjoy the moment, I'll never say it again."

And even though Geralt couldn't see him, or maybe because of that Jaskier smiled at him brightly, feeling sudden warmth bloom in his chest. 

"If you do you'll never get another minute of silence in your life as long as I'm around." 

Geralt hummed an answer, but he didn't actually repeat himself. He didn't need to, anyway, because Jaskier picked up the book again and continued his recitation, now with a little more diligence that he knew Geralt was listening, but no less joy than before. 

He continued well beyond the point when he noticed Geralt had fallen asleep again, until he had read almost every poem and switched from recitation and low singing to simply humming under his breath to give his voice a break. He was just closing the book, trying to save a few more poems for later, when the door opened and Eskel marched into the room, not bothering to knock. Apparently he had just returned from his task of cleaning the basement, carrying the small silver dagger they had left down there, Geralt's shirt and the remains of the cerulean tunic. He deposited the dagger on the shelf next to where he had put Geralt's silver sword the previous evening, dropped the shirt onto the bed and handed the half-ripped and blood-smeared tunic to Jaskier. Then he settled on the ground, apparently not bothering that there was no chair in the room other than the one Jaskier was sitting in.

His arrival had roused Geralt from his sleep, and blinking he watched Eskel move around the room and then sit down. 

"So how do you feel?"

This time Geralt put a little more effort into trying to push himself up, managing to at least sit up a little, stuffing the pillow into his back and then sinking against it heavily, frowning at the pain. 

"Been worse. I appreciate your efforts."

Eskel snorted, leaning back, stretching his legs. He sat close to the fire, and he was dressed warmer than he usually would be, an extra layer consisting of a thick burgundy coloured tunic visible underneath his leather jerkin. There was again an air of tiredness around him that Jaskier hadn't noticed during breakfast, that maybe had only settled over him later when he had been back in the basement.

"Don't think you're done just yet, there's a potion waiting for you to help with the mending. Your muscles will take a while to grow back together, even though I stitched them up quite well."

Geralt nodded slowly. 

"I assumed as much. Still, thank you. I know how much it costs you to do this."

Waving his concerns away Eskel only shrugged. 

"I owed you one, if you care to remember. It's been a while, but I haven't forgotten, and even with that now settled I never will."

For a moment they just looked at each other, apparently both going back to a memory they shared that couldn't be positive in the slightest and that Jaskier was deeply glad he didn't need to see anytime soon. To give them the illusion of privacy and keep his own hands busy he took a good look at the ripped tunic Eskel had handed him, examining the tears in the fabric and the blood stains, wondering if it could still be mended, if washing would help.

When he looked back up again Geralt had his eyes closed again and Eskel was looking at the tunic. Shaking it out a bit Jaskier sighed. 

"So what's up with that thing exactly? You both know who this belonged to, and I think saw it in Geralt's room in one of the memories the spectre showed me."

Eskel stared at him in surprise. 

"How detailed were these memories, really?"

Letting the tunic sink Jaskier was silent for a moment, trying once more to find the words to describe what he had seen. 

"If what I saw really happened that way then it was as if I'd been there as well."

He thought he had made that clear, but then his report had been frantic the first time around, tinged by the fear he was feeling, the need to create coherence maybe having impacted on his storytelling just a little. 

"That's extraordinary."

Geralt hummed an answer, slowly opening his eyes again. 

"It belonged to Eskel."

Surprised Jaskier stared at him for a moment, and then at Eskel. 

"This was yours?"

He held the tunic up, and Eskel nodded. 

"A very long time ago. It was part of the school uniform at Ban Ard, I took it with me when I left. Was the talk of Kaer Morhen in that thing for a while, but then I started to grow. There was a rule that clothing that no longer fitted you had to be passed on, everything was needed here. So I gave it away, and it ended up with Geralt."

And finally it made sense. The colour, so unusual for the muted and earthy colours all the witchers Jaskier had ever met in reality or the memories wore, the ornamental decoration, the way the sleeves were cut, the delicate material. Witchers didn't wear clothing like this, but mages did, and Ban Ard of course had a school uniform. Mages were known for their enjoyment of complicated patterns and vivid colours, and the fashion they wore was always just a little different. 

"But you said it was tin thread?"

He looked at Geralt, but Eskel answered. 

"The uniforms at Ban Ard all looked the same, but they weren't of the same make. Some boys had money and silver thread, some were poor and got tin. It nearly did my head in when I arrived there, because they always told me silver was for the rich ones and all I knew from home was that silver was for monsters."

The irony did not escape Jaskier, who realised that he had no idea why Eskel had returned from Ban Ard to Kaer Morhen, and kept the question for a later date, just like the one about his use of healing magic. For now, though, he wanted to know a little more about the tunic, turning to Geralt.

"So you wore it afterwards? Surely not for long, aren't you the same age?"

Geralt nodded. 

"I had it for a while, I think. Not all the way up until the first trials, of course, but at least for a year or so. I used to be a little smaller than Eskel."

Jaskier had already known that, because he had seen the young Geralt in the memories and remembered that he had indeed been just a little smaller than Eskel. Years of training and two trials had seen to that, obviously, with Jaskier seeing no difference between them anymore. Eskel, however, did not share that opinion.

"I'd like to point out that I'm still taller than you are."

Rolling his eyes Geralt looked pleasently annoyed. 

"Barely. And luckily we rarely spend much time idly standing next to each other so my ego will never have to suffer from being known as the little witcher or anything like that.“

A hilarious song danced through Jaskier's head for a moment, and he could so just conceal his gleeful grin. But Geralt knew him very well, and immediately intervened. 

"I'll personally strangle you if you sing a single word about that."

Knowing a threat when one was uttered Jaskier raised his hands. 

"Not a hint shall fall from my lovely lips. So what happened with the tunic then?"

Eskel shrugged, but he had watched the exchange with amusement on his tired face, briefly making Jaskier wonder if he was going to ask for the song later. 

"Against the rules Geralt kept it hidden, and then passed it on when he left Kaer Morhen together with everything else he owned before the trials, as our tradition wants it. I've seen it on and off around Kaer Morhen for years, I think Milos wore it last before he went through the trials."

Nodding Jaskier once more remembered the many boys that had passed through the fortress and were now gone, having died in the trials, the siege or simply, over the years, on the path.

"And now of all those that have worn it only the two of you remain."

There was a brief silence in which Geralt and Eskel exchanged a long glance before Eskel cleared his throat and Geralt closed his eyes again. 

"I guess you could phrase it that way."

Geralt hummed a reply that could mean anything, and Eskel sank into silence. 

The three of them sat like this for a while longer, every single one of them lost in their own thoughts. Finally Eskel cleared his throat and stood up, prompting Geralt to slowly reopen his eyes. It was obvious that he still found it difficult to stay awake for longer periods of time, the heavy fatigue from the blood loss pulling him under into sleep again and again. 

"I'll be on my way, I just wanted to bring back your things and the tunic." 

But he didn't leave immediately, standing in the room for a moment, looking at Geralt in silence once more. 

"I returned the other dagger to Vesemir."

Geralt only nodded, apparently expecting the conversation to be over, that Eskel would leave soon. But he didn't move, simply standing and looking at Geralt for a moment longer, as if he was wondering how to continue the sentence, what else to say. 

"You could have told me."

But Geralt shrugged, this time suppressing the wince almost perfectly. 

"I trusted you'd find the dagger in the chest and know why it's there."

Eskel nodded, and Jaskier remembered how he had hesitated for a brief moment when he had seen it first, his hands resting on the blade for just a second too long. 

"And that I'd use it."

But Geralt remained unimpressed. 

"Of course. The spectre was unpredictable, it could have spread further. You'd have known what to do, if it had become necessary."

And then even Jaskier managed to catch up on the purpose of the dagger, the horror at the possibility suddenly unfolding in front of his inner eyes. At the same time Geralt sounded very matter-of-fact, not particularly fazed by the idea of his body being taken over by the spectre, of having to die by silver to prevent worse things from happening, maybe not during the battle when Eskel could have just as easily used his sword, but later when he was already slowly bleeding out. The dagger had been a nudge, offering Eskel the right tool at the right moment to make short work of Geralt's death, just like the silver sword on Jaskier's chest had been the right weapon at the right time to fend off the spectre at a moment when Geralt himself was incapable of intervening anymore. Both showed an impressive capacity for planning a battle, and at the same time a disheartening detachment from the consequences if those plans came to be executed.

Eskel had obviously come to the same conclusion long ago. 

"But it hadn't been necessary."

Raising an eyebrow Geralt tilted his head just a little.

"No."

Nodding Eskel turned around, towards the door, but changed his mind and turned back again. 

"No Kaedwen grave for you this time around."

There was a hint of relief in Eskel's voice that Jaskier could very easily understand, sharing the same emotion. Geralt only shrugged once more, refraining from wincing again. 

"No."

Finally Eskel had enough, crossed his arms in front of his chest and growled a little. 

"Can you say something else while we're having a conversation about how I almost had to dig you a grave today?"

With a sigh that indicated that he didn't really know why they were having this conversation at all Geralt frowned at him. 

"Why? You've gone into battle hundreds of times expecting your death, and so have I. If you had buried me today instead of standing there and complaining it wouldn't have been the worst outcome. A grave in Kaer Morhen, wouldn't that be a luxury when usually a witcher lies where he falls and remains there until his bones turn to dust? Because that's what's going to happen to both of us if we're lucky and die with our swords in our hands. You're not going to bury me today, and in the end I suppose nobody ever will. So what's there to say about it?"

It was an impressive lecture for someone as taciturn as Geralt, and Jaskier listened attentively, sadness rising. It was too bleak an outlook, and yet so very typical for Geralt and his inherent conviction that he was alone in this world, the completely ignorant misconception that nobody would miss him if he simply vanished one day and never returned. 

"Of course I know that, everybody does. Creatures like us, we survive and survive and survive until one day we don't, and then it's simply over. And yet, is that really what you want?"

It was an honest question, something Jaskier could imagine Eskel wondering about, but Geralt wasn't having it, waving it away as if it were a pesky fly. 

"Want? Eskel, I'm a fucking witcher, I don't get to want anything."

Apparently there was nothing Eskel could say anymore to that. He just looked at Geralt for a moment longer, and then shrugged. Turning around for good he nodded at Jaskier over his shoulders, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. 

Geralt stared at the closed door a moment longer before letting his head fall back, his skull hitting the wooden headboard with a dull noise. Even his growl sounded exasperated, but he also looked more exhausted by the second, letting his head rest against the headboard tilted back, eyes closed. Briefly Jaskier wondered if it was a good idea to stay, if he'd just get himself into an uncomfortable position if he talked now or if it was the equivalent of poking a sleeping dragon. He decided to take the chance, given the fact that Geralt seemed unlikely to be able to escape the situation anytime soon given the injury and heaviness with which his body was draped on the bed. 

"Do you really think of it that way?"

Uncrossing his legs Jaskier posed the question as if he were asking absent-mindedly, stretching his body a little in the armchair to distract from his words. Geralt only growled again, not bothering to open his eyes. 

"Eskel has these emotional moments, I should be used to them by now."

It did nothing to answer Jaskier's question, but he refrained from pointing out that it had hardly been Eskel right now who had ventured into slightly emotional territory, given it hadn't exactly been him lecturing the room on the witcher way of dying. 

"That's not what I meant. Do you really think nobody would care enough to even bury your body if you died?"

Lifting his head to look at Jaskier Geralt raised an eyebrow. 

"On the path? I've travelled alone decades and decades, so I don't see how that should work."

Crossing his legs again and gently placing the book he still held in his hands on his thighs Jaskier shrugged. But he didn't look at Geralt, knowing that these conversations were easier for both of them like this. 

"But you're no longer alone, or at least not all the time. And has it maybe occurred to you that I would never leave you just lying around rotting somewhere?"

He kept looking at the leather binding of the book, tracing the finely tooled edges and ornamental decorations pressed into the leather with his fingers, admiring the intricate craftsmanship that had produced such a perfectly worked binding.

"That would be an inconveniencing burden for you."

Snorting Jaskier looked up, wondering briefly if he could just take the beautiful book and smack it over Geralt's thick skull. 

"You're a complete arsehole if you really think of it like that. I'm human, Geralt, and we consider it an obligation of honour to bury those we love. It's a custom of my people you might have heard about in passing, we even call the sites we use for that purpose graveyards."

He infused the final part of his sentence with just enough sarcasm to make it hurt, a little hint of acid dripping to cover the fact that he might have just accidentally declared his love for Geralt without thinking about it thoroughly. His heart, however, that terrible human thing he couldn't keep still in his chest, fluttered just a little. 

Geralt gave no indication he had noticed anything out of the ordinary, however. He just looked ahead, stoically staring into nothingness, his profile all sharp angles with a heavy frown set into it. He seemed to turn something in his mind, not coming to a conclusion at all, pondering. It took him so long to answer that Jaskier had already turned his gaze away again, looking down at the book, once more wondering if he should continue reading. He had to look up again at hearing Geralt speak, softer now, almost insecure. 

"Would you really?"

It almost broke Jaskier's heart, and he softened immediately. 

"Yes, of course. If you want me to bury you I promise I'll do it, if I'm with you at that moment, if I'm alive myself anymore." 

He almost added that he'd only have to do it if he hadn't been able to protect Geralt, which was of course absolutely ridiculous, given that Jaskier was in no way fit to protect Geralt at all, and both knew it very well. Instead he continued talking, looking at Geralt who was no longer staring holes into the air but instead had dropped his gaze and was looking at his own hands. 

"So what would you want me to do in that scenario? Maybe a nice marble tomb, with a statue like kings have them, you in silent repose with your silver sword in your hands? Three white horses pulling a hearse and crying women following it all the way to the temple?"

It had been meant to break up the atmosphere, and it worked perfectly well. Geralt snorted at the image, slowly shaking his head.

"Fuck, no." He thought about his next words for a moment, before shrugging. "I haven't thought about that in a long time, not since the trials. A hole in the ground would be nice, I suppose, deep enough so no necrophages come to visit." 

Jaskier nodded gravely, being well aware that Geralt had a special kind of hatred reserved for necrophages for reasons Jaskier himself had never quite figured out, considering them just as vile as many other monsters but nothing beyond that. 

Geralt seemed to ponder his options a bit longer, now actually focused on the question.

"And if you're at it anyway you should take a few things. Most would be worthless, but, well, there's a market for witcher swords. I guess the silver sword alone would get you enough money to live comfortably for a while if you take care to sell it well. Just don't bury me with anything of worth, and without the medallion. But don't sell that, it shouldn't go around. Keep it or bury it separately, you'll know what to do with it."

Listening closely Jaskier felt the sadness twist his stomach painfully. And he felt a little flustered that Geralt thought it would be a good idea for Jaskier to take his weapons to a market, sell them, and live comfortably off the profit for a while. On the other hand it was practical thinking, and what was a bard to do with the weapons of a witcher? He had no use for them. And yet the idea of carrying the silver sword to a merchant, to watch someone appraise it with greedy eyes, seeing a stranger's hand paw the blade and know it would end up on the wall of an imbecile made Jaskier growl inwardly even now, when nothing of that sort was imminent, when Geralt was more or less in one piece and his weapons solidly stored on the shelves within Jaskier's line of sight. He didn't want to imagine the scenario, didn't want to think of a moment where he'd lay Geralt down to rest somewhere, close the amber eyes, put heavy earth over his body. 

The emotions bubbling up in him were so intense that he thought he'd choke on them for a moment. Drawing a shaky breath he tried to calm himself, knowing perfectly well that Geralt felt every misplaced tremble of his heart. 

He had to clear his throat before answering. 

"Right. So I'll sell your swords and live happily ever after dressed in silk with diamonds on my fingers. And I get to keep the medallion?"

Geralt shrugged, this time openly wincing at the pain. Very slowy he moved in the bed again until he could lie stretched out, resting his head on the pillow with a barely contained sigh of relief, tired after sitting almost upright for just the short amount of time. But he kept his eyes open, looking at Jaskier. 

"If you want to."

Without him being able to do anything against it Jaskier's eyes went to the medallion where it sat on Geralt's bare chest, dangling out of kilter as he lay on his side, and because Jaskier's imagination was a moronic arsehole he immediately could see himself taking it off a lifeless Geralt and almost felt the weight of it on his own chest. Then he remembered the second silver chain around Coën's neck, and what it meant that he wore it, and realised that Geralt had actually listened to his little slip earlier and answered in the same vein. 

It briefly made him wonder if they'd ever stop talking in riddles to each other, just for one fucking moment, but when he inhaled the next time his breath was again so shaky that he thought he'd choke on it. To prevent any unfortunate scenes he focused on breathing for a moment, inhaling and exhaling, and was barely able to trust his voice enough to say something when the door opened, and Vesemir stalked into the room. 

Didn't these doors have locks? Was nobody knocking anymore these days? Annoyed Jaskier looked up at him and quickly at Geralt, but whatever had been in his face was already gone again, his whole demeanour as detached as ever. 

Vesemir seemed completely oblivious to what he had just walked into, stalked straight through the room and held out the small bottle he was carrying. Geralt took it, but then only looked at it with unveiled dislike. 

"Don't stare at it, take it. It'll knock you out for the rest of the day, but it will mend the internal wounds."

Geralt nodded, pushed himself up slowly once more. Holding the bottle in his hands he turned it around, watching the dark green liquid move inside. But he was hesitating just a moment too long, and Vesemir was not patient. 

"What now, are you afraid of a little pain suddenly? It'll pass, and you'll be better for it tomorrow."

He sounded just a little like he was chiding a young child, and Geralt growled something under his breath before forcing the cork off the bottle and downing the potion in one go. Replacing the empty bottle on the little table he sank back in bed again, still shuddering at the impact, controlling his breathing carefully. 

"Don't know if I would call it a little pain."

Vesemir shrugged. "You have seen worse." 

Geralt only growled instead of an answer but could do nothing but close his eyes while waiting for the potion to start doing what it was supposed to do. And with growing worry Jaskier watched as it did. He assumed this was the mending potion Eskel had mentioned earlier, that the point of the vile liquid was to force the muscles Geralt had sliced through to heal faster, to mend the cut flesh sitting underneath the sutures. It was continuing the process Eskel had started with his hands in the wounds, complementing it, a true miracle cure Jaskier had never heard of before, that he assumed was rare. He couldn't even tell off the top of his head if Geralt had a bottle like this in his inventory, if he kept one with him while travelling. In any case he had never seen him use anything like this, and watching him slowly sink under as the pain returned in waves Jaskier knew exactly why. 

No person in their right mind would willingly subject themselves to this, not again, not after what he had just been through the previous evening. Horrified Jaskier watched him try to control his breathing, stop it from hitching with every wave of pain crashing over him as the potion was searing its way through his body underneath the stitched up flesh, reconnecting muscles, repairing tissue. 

It was brutal to watch, even as Geralt turned his head away and buried it in the pillow, remaining completely silent as he had the previous day, weathering the pain with stoic self-control. But his body betrayed him, his hands trembling where they lay on the bed, palms turned up, his fingers stretched out towards Jaskier but closing helplessly around nothing but thin, empty air.


	13. You will open your wounds / and make them a garden

The next night Jaskier slept in his own bed, alone with his fitful dreams, the wind howling around the fortress. A small storm had sailed in early in the evening, shortly after Jaskier had left Geralt's room again after checking up on him and finding Vesemir sitting in the armchair silently watching his motionless body stretched out on the bed, drenched in sweat but passed out from the pain the dreadful potion had brought with it. There was already a new bottle of the dark green liquid on the small table by the bed, waiting to drag Geralt right under again should he wake up, a tour de force of healing Jaskier wasn't sure was really necessary. But he didn't dare discuss anything with Vesemir, who only silently nodded once at Jaskier and made no motion to ask him to come in. 

Jaskier didn't return there the same evening, taking himself to his own bed early and happily enough falling into deep sleep quickly. But it seemed that while his body required rest and leapt at the chance of sleeping a few hours more his brain came to life unbidden. His dreams were vivid and gruesome, an endless parade of all the things that could have gone wrong during the fight in the basement. Again and again he watched the spectre stretch itself out within Geralt's body, black tendrils growing over his skin, taking over until he couldn't resist anymore. He saw the worst possible outcome, the silver dagger pushed into Geralt's chest, again and again, but the hands on the hilt differed - one moment it was Eskel diligently doing his job, then Jaskier looked up and it was Vesemir, and in one particularly terrible instance the instrument lay in his own hands and Eskel calmly guided him to push it in, between the sixth and seventh rib, straight downwards, until there was no more heartbeat and only blood. 

He awoke in panic in the early morning, sweating and shaking from the too vivid and colourful images, terrified at the powerful horror his mind had been able to conjure. It was still dark outside, the dawn nothing but a line of faint colour on the horizon. In the slowly lifting darkness Jaskier watched the Blue Mountains in the distance, sitting like dark shapes. There was a flurry of snowflakes in the air, but the weather had cleared remarkably, and the storm seemed to have passed for now. 

Down in the kitchen the fire was already on, Eskel dressed in one of his thick and comfortable looking burgundy coloured tunics looking already cheerfully awake and stirring the pot of kasha. He looked up in surprise as Jaskier stumbled out of the archway, having clearly not expected him to be around this early in the morning. 

"Good morning, Songbird. Did you fall out of bed?"

Jaskier nodded and yawned, settling down at the table and watching Eskel prepare breakfast. It was a soothing sight, Eskel tending to the mundane task of making the kasha with the same diligence he would put into anything else, displaying the same calm focus and concentration no matter if he was cooking or fighting, or mending gaping wounds with his healing hands. 

Setting his elbows on the table and placing his head on top of his linked fingers Jaskier watched him in silence, letting the sounds and smells soothe his still upset mind. He had nearly drifted off again when he heard steps from the archway and Vesemir came down the stairs. He looked at Jaskier in passing, walked over to Eskel and cast a questioning glance into the pot. Satisfied with what he saw he vanished into the pantry, returned with the pot with cherries and the honey and deposited both on the table before settling down on the bench. 

Eskel gave the kasha one last proper stir, and then filled up three bowls. Carefully balancing them, two in his hands and one on his wrist like an experienced waiter in any proper tavern he walked over, set everything down and sat down next to Jaskier. But Vesemir had other plans, shaking his head. 

"Take your bowl and another one and go up, see how Geralt is doing. And afterwards make sure he takes the second mending potion, it's about time."

Stopping in his movements Eskel looked at him with doubt in his face. 

"This early? He took the first one last afternoon, I'd have given him the entire day to recover."

But Vesemir shook his head again, obviously being of a different opinion. 

"No, there's no time for that. Push it, he'll cope."

Eskel didn't look convinced at all, but he collected his bowl again, filled a second one and vanished from the kitchen. 

Looking at Vesemir Jaskier wondered what this was about, why Vesemir insisted, if he knew anything Jaskier and maybe even Eskel did not know. But he was very much aware that Vesemir wouldn't explain himself to anyone, and especially not to Jaskier. 

And as always he didn't know what to say. Vesemir remained a mystery to him, more than the others were, more than even Geralt had ever been. Jaskier simply had no idea how to read him, what exactly was happening in his mind. He displayed barely any cues of body language for Jaskier to go off on, nothing he could interpret in any way. 

It was dreadfully obvious that this was what people meant when they said witchers had no emotions, for Vesemir apparently really seemed to have none, or at least was incredibly proficient at hiding them. It made it easier to understand why so many of his fellow humans were uncomfortable with witchers around, besides the obvious fact that they were potentially dangerous fighters. Even to Jaskier Vesemir's presence was slightly unsettling, his whole being absolutely unpredictable. Anything could happen with his mood so perfectly veiled, anything at all. Compared to him Eskel was amicable like a prattling milkmaid and even Geralt's brooding silence seemed like something that could be eventually figured out. But this wall of nothingness, amber eyes completely devoid of any hint to what might have been going on behind them? 

But Jaskier kept looking, not willing to back down. He had seen enough of Vesemir by now to assume that nothing terrible was going to happen, that beneath the cold exterior at least something resembling feelings lay, maybe well hidden, but breaking through sometimes, showing in his actions. Tough love, maybe, but love, and for Jaskier that was enough. 

They sat in silence until Jaskier had finished his own bowl and decided to be just a little nosey. What was the worst that could happen? Well, besides sudden and painful death, but somehow he had long ago decided that he wasn't going to die in Kaer Morhen and that was that. 

"Why can't you let Geralt rest for a moment?"

Vesemir, spooning his kasha without any added fruit or sweetness, only tilted his head slightly. 

"Because internal bleeding is difficult to spot and can kill quickly. The potion takes care of that."

Surprised Jaskier stared, not having expected to get any answer at all, and certainly not an honest one like this, revealing Vesemir's motives so thoroughly. 

"So what is that concoction?"

For a moment Vesemir looked up, scrutinizing Jaskier briefly before turning his attention back to his breakfast. 

"A medicinal one. Does Geralt usually talk about his potions?"

It sounded like an easy enough question, but Jaskier recognised the trap and quickly went through his options. Were witcher potions supposed to be secret? Was it like the thing with the silver sword, the sacredness of it tarnished if a human as much as touched it? Geralt had never indicated anything like that. Of course the silver sword was a different story altogether, but the potions had never been off-limits to Jaskier like the silver blade had been for a long time. They had spoken about the alchemy behind them and Jaskier had watched Geralt prepare them while travelling, listening carefully to his explanations.

After all these years Jaskier now had a good grasp of some of the basic ones, and a more detailed knowledge about the healing varieties, given that he was quite often in charge of taking care of Geralt after particularly nasty contracts. He knew which one to pick for what problem, if it needed to be drunk or poured over wounds, how long their effects would last, if they would knock Geralt out or not. 

Given all of that Jaskier decided to remain non-committed, and simply shrugged. 

"A little."

Grunting Vesemir pushed his empty bowl away. 

"He seems to talk a great deal when he's with you." He paused for a moment and continued when Jaskier said nothing.

"Eskel gave me a very detailed description of your attack on the spectre. It wasn't the first time you were using that sword."

It wasn't a question, and Jaskier saw no need to lie. 

"I've looked after it for Geralt a few times, when he thinks it would be safer with me than with him."

Vesemir's eyes narrowed a little at the answer, and Jaskier realised that he'd give Geralt an earful about that later. Right now, however, he kept looking at Jaskier, his gaze unreadable. 

"And he has reasons to trust you?"

Jaskier leant back a little in surprise. 

"I suppose he does."

Scrutinizing Jaskier just a little longer Vesemir finally hummed a reply that was absolutely non-committal and could have meant anything. But he didn't explain himself, only rising from the bench. He deposited the empty bowl into the basin to be washed later, and turned to vanish from the kitchen. Just before he was through the archway he paused, briefly, looking at Jaskier again. 

"I'll heat the bathhouse today. You might want to make use of it in the late afternoon."

And with that he was gone, leaving Jaskier to stare at the empty space he had just been in moments ago, frantically wondering what the hell was going on there, why Vesemir was suddenly talking to him at all and why witchers couldn't just once, just one day in their life, say what they were actually meaning. 

With a sigh he left the kitchen after taking care of the dishes and making sure the kasha wouldn't boil over or burn. Lost in thoughts he climbed the stairs upwards, unsure what he should do with the early morning. He was tired again, and with the warmth of the kasha inside his stomach it seemed like an acceptable plan to simply return to his room and maybe continue his task of copying the elven poetry. Time wasn't exactly running away, but when he was done he could pick through a few other books from the library, see if there were more treasures where this had come from, words to fuel his mind and maybe the Oxenfurt lectures he intended to give the next summer.

He was already halfway up to his rooms when he passed by the corridor leading to Geralt's room. Not thinking about where he was going he just left his body to come to a decision and stood in front of Geralt's door shortly, finding it to his surprise halfway opened. He didn't bother to knock, simply stepping halfway into the room. Standing in the door frame he stopped in his tracks at the strange panorama in front of him. 

Eskel was still there, sitting on the bed, but facing towards the fireplace. On the floor two empty bowls were neatly stacked, waiting to be carried back to the kitchen and washed thoroughly. Apparently Eskel had kept Geralt company during breakfast, but had also not forgotten Vesemir's instruction to give Geralt the second dose of the terrible mending potion. But he hadn't succeeded yet, the small bottle with the vile dark green liquid still in his hands, the cork solidly on top of it. 

But he had managed to get Geralt upright, or at least partially. He sat with the blanket pulled up over his legs and hips, knees under it drawn up. His torso was twisted slightly and turned to his right side, exposing the sutures, the dark red around the silver thread a stark contrast against the pale skin and the white sheets. His weight was leant to the side, right shoulder braced against Eskel's back, head dipped sideways and his forehead tipped against Eskel's shoulder. At some point he had untied his hair, and it fell around his face like a dirty curtain, effectively hiding it from view. 

It was a view Jaskier had never assumed he'd ever see, Geralt being openly affectionate with somebody, anybody, seeking any sort of physical contact voluntarily. And Eskel looked as if he was just as surprised, albeit far from unwilling. On the other hand he couldn't move much, with Geralt leaning against his back, out of reach and, crucially, out of view. Eskel could have walked away and withdrawn, but he couldn't touch or reciprocate in any way, his hands on his knees, his attempts to look over his shoulder pointless. It was the most distant way Jaskier had ever seen anyone show affection, and yet for someone who kept his distance like Geralt did quite a surprising and worrying request for physical comfort. 

Eskel didn't seem bothered by the whole scenario, easily taking the weight of Geralt leaning against him. And although he had to have seen Jaskier, or at least sensed his presence he didn't move or acknowledge him. Instead he remained slightly twisted in the pointless attempt to look over his shoulders and catch more than a small glimpse of the silver white head resting there, giving off the clear impression of a man who'd like nothing more than to turn around and open his arms, but knew he wasn't allowed to. It reminded Jaskier of the night in the library Geralt had spent sleeping on the camp bed next to Eskel's chair, and the wonder Jaskier had seen on Eskel's face, the question whether he could reach down and gently touch or not clearly written there.

Then Eskel sighed. 

"Too much?"

Geralt, otherwise unmoving, not reacting to Jaskier's presence, nodded slowly. Then he said the exact opposite.

"No, just tired."

Jaskier watched Eskel raise the eyebrow on the side of his face that wasn't disfigured. 

"Of course you are. But just this one potion, and then you can rest."

He sounded cheerful as always, but Jaskier clearly remembered him not being amused at the prospect of Geralt suffering through another dose this early, and noticed how easily Eskel lied, just like Geralt could admit to not being able to go on anymore and then go on nevertheless. 

"Then, not now."

Eskel twisted a little more, once more trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on literally behind his back, but didn't succeed. With another sigh he turned forward again, slouching just a little with a slightly rounded back and bracing his elbows on his knees, moulding his body to make it more comfortable for Geralt. It was such a small thing to do, but it reminded Jaskier of all the tiny things he did that had the same aim, wondering why the hell they weren't allowed to just finally smother Geralt in all of their respective love while he was conscious, just once, just to see if he wouldn't like it if he'd give it a try.

"Yes, then. Come on, you don't want to undo all my hard work and die now with a late onset of internal bleeding. It was quite a bit of work to keep you alive, don't sabotage me now."

Jaskier almost snorted, and silenced himself in the very last minute. It seemed he wasn't the only one who knew exactly what buttons to push when trying to get Geralt to do anything, and he was amused that Eskel used the exact same tactics just as easily and purposefully. 

In the meantime Geralt only hummed, unmoving, remaining draped against Eskel's back, that alone a testament to how exhausted he really had to be. Even his voice was thick with sleep, as if he were on the brink of dropping off into dreams again and would any minute if Eskel remained unmoving for just a little longer.

"You used a lot of magic."

Eskel only nodded, not saying anything, simply looking forward. It was daylight, but the fire in the fireplace was burning brightly, freshly stoked with a few logs, and from his not-so-secret spot in the door frame Jaskier could see Eskel's bright eyes reflecting the flames. 

"I can still smell it on you, two days later. You must be exhausted."

Jaskier saw a hint of a smile ghost over Eskel's face, and then he gently shook his head. 

"Decidedly less than you are. I rarely get to use healing magic these days, it was good to see it's still there. And since I know you'll soon complain that you can't stand the scent of my magic because it always gives you a headache let me remind you that you smell less than endearing yourself. You need a bath, preferably soon."

Geralt growled something incomprehensible first before answering properly. 

"Fuck off."

With a grin on his face Eskel made a forward movement as if he intended to get up, immediately stopping again, but causing the already half-asleep Geralt to fall sideways a little before he could brace himself again, now resting what had to be larger parts of his body weight against Eskel's back and growling again.

"What? You said I should go."

Eskel sounded very amused, but eased himself back to his former position again, giving Geralt time to rearrange himself more comfortably. He didn't receive any sort of comment or answer to that, and just remained sitting in silence for a moment, completely unflustered, not bothering to hide the fact that he enjoyed the unexpected affection bestowed on him.

But then he apparently remembered why he was there, and that he still had to convince Geralt to take the potion. He looked at the bottle in his hands almost unwillingly.

"Listen, here's the potion, just get it over with. I can stay, you don't even have to move."

Eskel was looking over his shoulder again, but Jaskier only remembered Geralt stretching his hands out towards him the previous day after taking the potion, and closing his fingers around nothing but empty air. It had been heartbreaking, and it somehow made him feel inadequate to know that this specific comfort was something that Eskel could offer, who didn't have to worry that Geralt would accidentally break his hands, being strong enough to withstand, to hold on through the pain and suffering. 

And given how tired Geralt seemed to be, how he was already draped against Eskel's back displaying a most confusing need for physical comfort Jaskier fully expected him to accept the offer, to just for once admit that there was a breaking point to what he could endure, to acknowledge that he had been pushed to the limits of what was possible. 

But of course it never happened.

"Don't waste your time. You have more important things to do."

Again Jaskier regretted not seeing Geralt's face, but he could easily imagine the expression, recognising the sudden composed and cool tone of his voice. And Eskel apparently knew it well, too. He exhaled slowly, tilting his head in what seemed to be a very small admittance of defeat, and with his left hand held the bottle out so that Geralt could take it. 

He did, lifting his head a little when he noticed Eskel's shoulder blades move with the gesture, with ever so slightly unsteady hands taking the bottle. But he didn't open it just yet, instead dropping his head against Eskel's back again for a moment, exhaling slowly, gathering strength. 

"Take Jaskier with you when you leave."

It was a very clear order, and Eskel looked up at Jaskier standing in the door frame for the first time. Understanding the request without saying anything Jaskier simply nodded apologetically, and withdrew. 

In the corridor the air seemed suddenly much colder than it had been before, and he shivered slightly. But his concentration was shot, and he suddenly had no desire to continue up to his own room and remain there. Instead he only went to collect his cloak and then marched back down the stairs, passed through the kitchen minutes later and then walked out into the inner courtyards and towards the stables. It was a clear and very cold day, but it seemed that there hadn't been any heavy snowfall recently, and the courtyards were clear and traversable. Briefly Jaskier wondered when he had been outside for the last time and if it had already been that cold, but then he arrived in the warmth again and was greeted enthusiastically by the horses. Biel was almost ecstatic to see Jaskier again, looking very well cared for but in need of exercise. 

Jaskier was barely in the stables for longer than a few minutes, having greeted Biel properly and even taken a moment to try and coax Roach to let herself be petted just a little when Lambert came in, bringing cold air into the stables with him. Together they readied the horses for a day outside and then marched them down to the paddocks across the snow-covered courtyards. The sun was already up now, and the few snowflakes that fell occasionally glittered in the clear air. 

The horses hadn't been outside the previous day with the storm approaching, and Jaskier watched them take possession of their paddock again, their hooves kicking up the snow as they pranced around, bucking and leaping. Shaking his head Lambert watched his mare almost dance, head held high, her breath puffing small white clouds in the cold air, mane flying as she made her rounds around the paddock. 

Jaskier leant next to him on the wooden fence and enjoyed the view just as much, the delighted energy of the horses returning some of his own light-heartedness to him. Together with Lambert he returned to the keep, waving to Eskel who was dragging stacks of logs towards the bathhouse, but then decided to join Coën when they met in the courtyard and help him take care of the chickens. It took longer than expected to feed them and find all the eggs, and then there was a loose hinge on the door of the enclosure that needed to be fixed and Coën was thankful for another pair of hands. 

Together they found a good solution quickly, and Jaskier once more enjoyed the light-hearted banter he had realised Coën was capable of weeks ago. He had gotten to know him a little better while practising his fighting techniques and during their conversations in the library, listening to his explanations about dragons and griffins and all sorts of flying draconids, admiring his knowledge and making Coën blush with his open and honest compliments. It had been then that Jaskier had realised how young Coën actually was, not only compared to the likes of Eskel and Geralt, but even to himself, who in reality was of course decades younger and yet, somehow, older at the same time. It had only endeared him to Jaskier, and now they returned to their easygoing camaraderie smoothly. 

It was almost time for a light lunch when they parted ways. Coën returned directly to the kitchen with the eggs they had collected and Jaskier walked up to his rooms, wanting to deposit his cloak there. 

And just like it had happened the first time around he stumbled when he walked past the corridor leading to Geralt's room, hesitated, and found himself in front of the closed door minutes later. He knocked, heard nothing and then decided to just follow Kaer Morhen custom and simply peek into the room. 

The view was the same as it had been last night, barely changed neither from the setting not the protagonists. There was Vesemir sitting in the armchair, apparently asleep, his eyes closed and hands folded over his stomach. Geralt lay stretched out in the bed on his side, blanket pulled up to his shoulders, head on the pillow, his dirty hair a chaotic mess. He seemed fast asleep, or maybe just passed out again from the pain, but now that Jaskier could see his face he noticed how the deep lines on it weren't gone even in his sleep, the impression of intense pain still there. On the little table to the side of the bed stood the bottle Eskel had handed him earlier, empty now. 

For a moment Jaskier just stood in the door frame again, just like he had hours ago, watching Geralt breathe slowly, every exhale and inhale moving his slumped shoulders slightly. 

Then Vesemir stirred, slowly opening his eyes. He didn't seem surprised to see Jaskier, having probably noticed his steps long before Jaskier had ever arrived in front of the closed door. 

For a moment they just looked at each other. Then Vesemir tilted his head slightly. 

"Come in, close the door. I meant to speak to you, and now is as good a moment as ever."

Surprised Jaskier stared, trying his best not to gape. Then he did as told, moved a few steps forward and closed the door behind him. But he didn't come closer, waiting, standing in the middle of the room without really knowing what was going to happen. His eyes went back from Vesemir to Geralt, watching him breathe steadily. 

When Jaskier looked back up Vesemir's amber eyes were on him, unreadable as ever. 

"Listen, human. I've taught generations of boys and witchers here in Kaer Morhen, many of them. Few of them are still around, but those that are would do well to remember my lessons."

He moved a little, letting his hands fall on the armrests of the armchair, completely unbothered by Jaskier's unease. 

"So let me give you one, too."

Surprised Jaskier stared at him, incapable of understanding why that was happening now and here. But Vesemir continued unfazed. 

"What is the main difference between a monster and a human or other non-monstrous being?"

Blinking Jaskier wondered if he was supposed to answer that question, and why Vesemir was asking him at all. Then he thought about the problem and realised he couldn't find a concise answer. What was the difference, really? The teeth? The bloodlust? But then humans had teeth and, as Jaskier could swear on, bloodlust. Vesemir, however, continued after waiting for a moment, seemingly not actually having anticipated Jaskier to say anything, simply having given him time to think.

"I will tell you. Humans have emotions, a lot of them, but they can also function on cold logic. Rational thinking, albeit degenerated in most, is still one of your characteristics. Genetically changed beings usually retain that - mages, sorcerers, witchers. It's the essence of humanity, more or less. Monsters, on the other side, rarely show the ability for logic. They are driven by instinct, emotions, hunger, need. Want."

He waited for a moment for the impact of his words before continuing, and Jaskier listened as if his life depended on it, still trying to understand what exactly Vesemir was telling him, and why he was dressing it as if he were giving Jaskier a lecture he had probably delivered to hundreds of boys over the decades and maybe centuries he had been responsible for them.

"The further removed from humanity a creature is the more it is driven by emotions. A calculated loss of humanity brings control over human weaknesses, but if pushed too far things come into play that can be difficult to keep in check. More instinct, which can be a good thing in a hunter. But also more hunger, more want. More need. Remember this, because you humans think that the further you step from humanity the less you find when instead it is the other way around. There is not less but more, overwhelmingly and painfully more."

Jaskier felt himself nodding without comprehending. Vesemir looked at him, a strange penetrating gaze, as if he wanted to see if Jaskier understood what he was telling him. Then he nodded. 

"Good. Don't forget about this, human. It might become useful to you."

Leaning back in his chair he closed his eyes again, stretched his legs and ostensibly fell asleep immediately, the same withdrawing mechanism Jaskier had watched him employ in the library when he was always asleep and never really. 

Now he left Jaskier standing in the room in confusion, staring in turns at the two sleeping witchers, Vesemir refusing to talk, Geralt drifting in the senseless unconsciousness the mending potion had brought on, both nothing but silent riddles to Jaskier's confused human mind. 

Leaving the room and gently closing the door he stood in the cold corridor wondering what was going on here, why Vesemir was suddenly lecturing him on the nature of monsters. The words sat in his mind, floating around waiting for him to tie them to an already existent string of thought to create coherence. He had the feeling of having forgotten something of vital importance, that there was a piece of information that would make sense of Vesemir's sudden lecture and that he just couldn't put his fingers on right now. It nagged on him, but his mind was blank, giving him nothing even though he poked and prodded it to his best ability. 

Frustrated he marched up to his room, deposited his cloak and went down to the kitchen, the thoughts swirling in his mind, pointlessly bouncing off each other but not leading him to any satisfying conclusion. 

He spent the day unable to focus on anything, again abandoning his intention to work on the book with elven poetry, instead helping Lambert to clear out the stables and later sit in the library and continue his lessons on draconids with Coën. In the afternoon a light snowfall set in, and as darkness slowly fell long before it was evening Jaskier was more than happy to nod when Coën proposed they continued their conversation in the bathhouse. 

The short walk across the courtyard left Jaskier freezing even with his cloak, and he was just as glad to step into the warmth of the bathhouse as he had been the first time. Now he already knew his way around, stripped efficiently and marched straight through the archway into the main room, towel in hand while Coën was still unlacing his boots. He found it warmly lit, heat radiating from the tiled floors and the walls, the smell and sound of water soothing his mind immediately. The scent of pine tree and sea salt was already in the air, but there was only Eskel, lounging in the large basin, eyes closed. He didn't even open them when Jaskier passed by the basin, only raising a hand before letting it fall back into the water, obviously tired and enjoying the warmth. 

Jaskier didn't mind the silence at all, walking over to the smaller basin near the wall where the warm water was waiting to be used for thorough washing. Collecting everything he needed he settled down, dipped the bowl into the water and let it run over his head. It was the most pleasant sensation, finally washing away the grime and horror of the basement for good, better than he had been able to do with just the bucket in his room. Using much more water than he actually needed he properly soaked his hair, and then reached for the soap and a rag and gave himself a very thorough scrubbing. 

Drifting off towards the images of the coast the scent of the soap conjured in his mind Jaskier barely noticed Coën enter the main room, greet Eskel and get a bucket of his own to commence the same washing ritual. Only when Jaskier was done, his skin almost pink after having been scrubbed properly he looked up, watching Coën hoist the full bucket over his head easily and dousing himself with its entire contents to wash the soap away. He was visibly enjoying the water running down his body, head tipped back and eyes closed, his body stretched tall as he stood with his arms over his head, all long muscles and lean lines. He looked much slimmer when he was dressed, but Jaskier hadn't been under any illusion, easily recognising that Coën was built differently but no less powerfully than the wolf witchers were, his body exactly as much a weapon as theirs. And he was just as scarred, having seen enough battle despite his younger years, scars crossing over his back and dug deep into his legs, winding down a shoulder and twisted around his right biceps. He had taken the second medallion off, now wearing only the griffin head, wet silver glittering where it sat on his sternum. 

Trying not to stare Jaskier wrung out the rag he had used to clean himself, deposited it on the heap of used ones and returned the bucket and soap. Savouring the feeling of the warm tiles under his wet feet he crossed the small space towards the main basin, and climbed in feeling the burn of the hot water on his skin. Exhaling he closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his head back against the edge of the basin and relaxed into the warmth. 

Coën followed his example quickly, and Jaskier opened his eyes again to see him slide into the water with a splash and find a spot for himself. He hummed at the feeling of the hot water closing around him, water droplets glittering in his thick dark beard. Dropping his head back against the edge of the basin he spread his arms out, careful not to accidentally hit anyone, and stretched them a little. Then he rolled his shoulders back, stretched his neck carefully and settled back with closed eyes. With some amusement Jaskier watched him as his cheeks flushed with the heat of the water, listening to the continuous hum of content that sounded just a little like Coën was on the edge of full-on purring. 

He caught Eskel's gaze who only grinned, his amber eyes sparkling with amusement, wet dark hair slicked back over his forehead. He raised a hand and splashed a little water in Coën's direction, causing him to flinch and wrinkle his nose, breaking the moment. 

"You griffins are really weird, did you know that?"

Brushing his hands over his face Coën only shrugged, completely unmoved at being teased, not embarrassed at being caught purring like a stray cat. 

"We just know how to enjoy life a little better than you stern wolves do. And considering they just copied the bathhouse at Kaer Seren when they built your fortress I think your ancestors would agree with me."

Eskel only laughed, but Jaskier suddenly realised where the architecture was from, why he had thought he had portaled somewhere else when he first walked through the archway. What looked foreign in Kaer Morhen would have made complete sense in Kaer Seren, located further south and to the east, down towards the coast. 

"So Kaer Seren is older?"

Coën looked at Jaskier, nodding, having no qualms to talk about his lost home. 

"It was. The schools all came to be more or less at the same time, but Kaer Seren was built earliest. There was still a lot more contact between the schools, and the masters building Kaer Seren apparently came to Kaer Morhen at some point and helped set it up."

He looked around the bathhouse once, smiling a little wistfully. 

"So they are very similar?"

Coën hummed a little, and then nodded. 

"An exact copy, even the tiles are the same. The water smells different, but if I ignore that and close my eyes it's almost as if I were home again."

His voice was tinged with nostalgia and sadness, and once again Jaskier remembered that Coën was in Kaer Morhen because he had nowhere to go, no home left with Kaer Seren destroyed and never rebuilt. 

"How many of you are left anyway? I haven't met a griffin on the path in years, I only ever see you."

Eskel sounded wondering, looking at Coën, keeping his voice soft and gentle. Coën only shrugged. 

"I don't really know. I think Damias is still around, I met him two years ago in Novigrad, but I haven't seen him since. The others, who knows. I keep looking, but I never find anyone. I guess with Kaer Seren destroyed, Sabas and the other masters gone, it's just over."

Coën looked at Eskel and then briefly at Jaskier, his green eyes darkened, suddenly tired despite his youth. Then he sighed. 

"But that's just the way things are. You were lucky Vesemir survived the siege and you were enough to rebuild, and wanted to. Griffins are different from wolves, we're not raised to cooperate like you do. So maybe there's a few more of my brothers left, but unless we stumble over each other on accident they might just live for a few more decades and then die without me ever knowing about it. We're not as weird as cat witchers are, but compared to you we're rather solitary creatures."

Listening with interest Jaskier watched Coën and remembered his offer to leave Kaer Morhen again, the slight surprise on his face when Vesemir had told him to stay as long as he wanted, that he'd be welcome in the fortress despite not being a wolf. And he had slotted himself easily into daily life in Kaer Morhen, being welcomed and visibly enjoying the company. 

He wanted to follow the line of thought further, but then he heard the door to the bathhouse open and close again, slow steps in the anteroom. Someone moved around there, the characteristic sounds of boots being taken off, clothes pulled over a head, things deposited on the shelves. 

Coën was still lost in his thoughts, but Eskel had tilted his head, listening intently, causing Jaskier to follow his example to try and pick out who it was. It could only be either Lambert or Vesemir, of course, but neither of them moved with slow steps and halting movements like the ones Jaskier heard, and it left him wondering.

Then Eskel inhaled, not bothering to hide that he was doing it to pick up a scent, and pulled a face, suddenly annoyed. In one smooth movement he turned around, reached over the edge of the basin and hoisted himself up, out of the water. Dripping wet he walked over towards the door, purposefully and with visible impatience. 

But before he arrived Jaskier heard footsteps approaching the main room, and Geralt appeared, towel in hand. Jaskier couldn't help but gape, having expected anyone but him, not when the last time he had seen him not too long ago was knocked out and completely exhausted, stretched out on the bed. It seemed absolutely impossible for him to be upright at all, and yet there he was, standing in the door frame watching Eskel approach. 

He wasn't looking much better now than he had while asleep, his face ashen and devoid of all colour, looking a little thin after not having properly eaten in days. But the sutures looked much better than before, still a dark red but obviously slowly closing, healing with the help of the mending potion and the unnatural capacity to mend itself inherent to Geralt's body.

But Eskel was not amused seeing him and stopped barely a meter away, his lips set into a thin line, fire in his eyes. Crossing his arms in front of his chest he essentially blocked the way, earning only a slightly amused glance from Geralt in return. 

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Geralt shrugged, slowly. 

"I recall it was you telling me I needed a bath."

Growling Eskel stared at him, his determination not to move projecting clearly. 

"But not today. Go back to bed, you're in no condition to be upright at all."

There was no room for discussion in his voice, but Eskel wasn't Vesemir and all Geralt did was raise an eyebrow. 

"That's not up to you to decide."

But Eskel didn't move, and Jaskier watched the ensuing staring match with worry, the fact that both were naked not being detrimental to the impressiveness of the collision of wills in the slightest. Next to him Coën had turned around in the basin, mild interest in his eyes, making sure to get a good view on what might turn into a veritable spectacle soon. 

"You can't go into the basin with wounds like this anyway."

Geralt nodded slowly, slightly leaning his right shoulder against the archway, hands holding the rolled up towel, keeping his left arm away from his torso so he wouldn't touch the sutures. But his growing impatience was obvious in his face and voice.

"Indeed, and I had no plans to. But I need to wash my hair, and it's easier here than in the keep."

Jaskier realised the purpose of the explanation, offering Eskel a little logic to go off on, something that made sense and pointed away from the fact that Geralt might have just gotten up because he couldn't bear the bed anymore. 

But Eskel didn't answer immediately, and Geralt was apparently fed up with their staring match. He moved sideways, intending to go around Eskel to get towards the basin, but Eskel was faster, lighter on his feet, moving effortlessly into his way and blocking it again. 

Jaskier watched Geralt drop his shoulders a little, roll them back, raising his chin just a bit. He stared at Eskel with narrowed eyes, clearly having run out of patience, anger building behind his eyes.

"Eskel."

His voice had dropped low, the threat barely veiled, and Jaskier felt the hair on his arms rise. He was very well aware that Geralt wasn't really capable of following through with whatever he might want to do, that he was most likely barely able to keep himself upright like this for much longer. And yet the threat was there and felt real, leaving Jaskier to calculate the possible outcomes as fast as possible. Eskel seemed completely unwilling to back down, growling a little instead of answering, and Jaskier knew Geralt and his insufferable pride well enough to be aware that he couldn't give in now, not until he collapsed, probably undoing a lot of their healing work. 

There was only one way out of the situation, and Jaskier could only sigh once and resign himself to the fact that he'd probably die a martyr, and that it was for a good cause. And at least he'd look angelic on the images they'd paint of him, a halo most becoming with his hair colour. Saint Jaskier! That's what one got for running with witchers.

Needing a little more effort than Eskel had displayed he heaved himself out of the water, padding over to where Eskel was slowly inching closer to Geralt. Jaskier was a little slow, careful not to slip on the tiles with his wet feet, and when he arrived planted himself firmly next to both of them.

"Right, that's enough. You -" He turned to Eskel, placing a firm hand on his still wet chest next to the medallion sitting on his sternum, feeling the tingle of Eskel's magic rush down his spine. "- go back to enjoy your lovely bath, relax a bit, it's all good." Then he turned around, looking at Geralt but not touching him lest he was still hurting more than he let on, gesturing towards the space next to the smaller basin. "And you go over there and sit down, I'll wash your hair for you."

Then he crossed his arms in front of his chest, staring at both of them with as much determination he could muster. He remembered the feeling of plunging the silver sword into the spectre, the rush of adrenaline, and used that knowledge to fuel his stance. He had survived that, he wasn't going to back down now, Melitele help his soul. Steeling himself, pulling his spine very straight and squaring his shoulders he waited for the inevitable explosion.

It never came. Instead all he got was a surprised look out of Eskel's fire eyes, Jaskier's orders having been enough to return some sense of rationality to his actions. He looked at the empty space on his chest where Jaskier's hand had rested just for a moment, and then up to Geralt, who seemed to have adjusted faster, his stance already more relaxed even though he was leaning against the archway again, more of his weight against the stone in an effort to keep upright. He raised an eyebrow, tilted his head and shrugged. 

Then Eskel exhaled and growled an unfavourable answer. But it was only for show now, the need to puff himself up just a little before retreating, turning around and silently marching over to the basin. He climbed over the edge gracefully, sinking into the warm water with a huff. 

It left Geralt leaning in the archway looking more amused by the minute, giving Jaskier an appreciative nod and then pushing himself off and walking towards the space where Jaskier had indicated he was supposed to go. His movements weren't of their usual fluid quality, and when he sat down on one of the wooden stools heavily Jaskier realised he had intervened just in time, probably saving Geralt not only from taking damage to his pride but also from fainting straight into Eskel's arms. 

Shaking his head Jaskier relaxed, threw his arms up into the air for good measure and padded over to where Geralt had settled. 

"You are all bloody imbeciles, do you know that? Gods above, you're no young boys, both of you, what is it with that petty bickering?"

Prattling on, perfectly knowing that nothing could take the aggression out of the air quicker than his babbling he marched around Geralt once, picked up the bucket, a bowl for water, soap and a rag. He dipped the bucket into the basin at the wall, taking up the warm water and hoisting the bucket over, absently-minded noticing again that it seemed much lighter than he remembered, probably a side effect of the hundreds of pushups Eskel had made him do. Geralt sat with his back to him now and Jaskier couldn't see his face, but Eskel was growling something under his breath. Jaskier, going with the flow, simply growled back.

"No more growling here, I can't have that. Keep it to yourself, Eskel. You may be right, but mostly in one specific area: Geralt really needs a bath, and to wash his hair."

He looked down at Geralt's back turned to him, seeing the blood stains, the fingerprints they had left on Geralt's skin, the horrible bird's nest the white hair had turned into, everything he had inspected close up while pressed against Geralt in bed not too long ago. Then he hoisted the bucket up and in one fell swoop emptied it over Geralt's head, offering no previous warning. 

Having not expected the sudden watery assault Geralt made a rather undignified noise as the water poured over his head and then hissed when it hit the sutures, hunching his shoulders forward. Turning around he glowered at Jaskier, looking more like a drowned cat than anything terrifying, water dripping off his nose. 

"You could have warned me."

But Jaskier already turned around to fill the bucket up again, and shrugged. 

"Shut up. You wanted water, you got water. Don't complain."

Then he dumped the second bucket of water on Geralt, causing him to cover his face with his hands to prevent himself from getting more water into his nose. 

And then Coën started to laugh, loud and unabashed, dipping his head back and barely being able to breathe as his laughter shook him. Geralt shot him a look of reproach, but he looked so drenched that his natural authority seemed all but gone, and Coën only giggled a little more.

"Oh, I can absolutely see you plunge that sword into the spectre. You got balls, Bard, and apparently they are made out of steel."

Grinning Jaskier filled the bucket up for the third time, this time setting it down and dipping the bowl into the water. 

"Took you long enough to notice."

Out of the corner of his eyes he watched Eskel shake his head, his face softening just a little, the aggression slowly melting away. Coën couldn't shake off his laughter and continued to giggle a little, stretching out in the water. Softly Jaskier placed a hand on Geralt's shoulder, feeling the tension still coiled there, the burn mark on his right palm still rough against Geralt's skin, the soft tingle of the contact spell tickling for a moment.

Withdrawing his hand he used the bowl to pour more water over Geralt's shoulders and then over his head, watching Geralt tip it back obediently, his eyes closed, face relaxed. Carefully not to tug Jaskier brushed his hands through the tangled hair, feeling the scratch of it against the sensitive skin on the burn, realising how dirty it really was. The lower ends were sticking together and helplessly entangled, Geralt's own blood having soaked into them down in the basement while Eskel was mending his wounds, and the days in bed hadn't helped. As much as Jaskier tried, he couldn't get some of the more stubborn knots out, even with a little more pulling. Geralt didn't comment on the procedure, keeping his head tipped back and perfectly still, but Jaskier saw the miniscule movements betraying the discomfort. 

Finally he admitted defeat. 

"I think it might be a lost cause. Do you want to try yourself?"

But Geralt only shrugged. 

"No, just cut if off."

Surprised Jaskier stared down at him, watching Geralt open his eyes, warm amber in the soft light in the bathhouse. Never before had Geralt asked Jaskier to cut his hair this easily, as if he weren't usually so touchy about it, allowing nobody near it. With everything Jaskier had learnt this winter he could easier understand why, and it left him even more surprised at the easily offered solution. 

"Are you sure? I think it would be enough to take off a little at the ends, nothing drastic."

Looking up at Jaskier Geralt only nodded slightly, seemingly not caring particularly about the whole scenario at all. 

"It's too long anyway. There's scissors on the shelves."

Remembering Lambert trying to get himself a lock of Geralt's hair as a trophy Jaskier padded over to the shelves, found the scissors, and returned. Brushing his hands through the long hair once more he tried to pinpoint how much needed to go, and set to work. Minutes later Geralt's hair was barely touching his shoulders anymore, but still long enough to be tied back and now without the horribly entangled ends. 

"Looks good to me." 

Geralt tilted his head, and Eskel made appreciative noises from the basin where he was still drifting, apparently having returned to his usual mellow mood. 

"You're a man with many talents, Songbird. Saves me having to do it sometime later."

Geralt nodded and Jaskier remembered that usually Geralt had shorter hair in spring than in autumn, apparently asking Eskel every winter to cut it and otherwise ignoring it unless it was absolutely necessary. It reminded him of their meeting in that other bathhouse in early spring the same year, Geralt worn out and tired from the winter spent away from Kaer Morhen, his hair far too long. Jaskier remembered cutting it in front of the fire in the room above the tavern afterwards, the first time he had ever done it without any specific situational need to it, just as a favour for a friend, just putting gentle hands on Geralt in the half-darkness of a cold room.

Wondering where time had gone to he put the scissors away and returned to continue the process of washing what was left of the silver white hair, and when he was done scrubbed Geralt's shoulders and back, feeling the tightness of his muscles slowly evaporate as he relaxed into Jaskier's hands. Finally he handed Geralt the rag and soap so he could continue the process on his other side, and padding back to the main basin slipped into the hot water satisfied with a task well done. 

Drifting in the hot water he listened to the noises of Geralt scrubbing his legs and torso, the soft and muted hissing when he arrived at the sutures and carefully cleaned those as well. There was more splashing of water, Geralt slowly rising and cleaning the area around where he had sat, the water carrying away the blood and cut-off hair. Finally he was done, and patting his skin dry with the towel, stalked across the room towards the shelves next to the fireplace, movements angular and betraying the fact that he wasn't quite doing well. 

Eskel watched him out of half-closed eyes as he was drifting in the warm water, a curious mixture of wonder and worry on his face. 

"So how exactly are you upright now when you were crying into my shoulder this morning?"

It was an honest question, completely ignoring the fact that Jaskier and Coën were still around. Geralt shrugged, and turned towards the shelves. Looking through the potion bottles there he found what he was looking for, picked up a clean rag and turned towards the slab. 

"I'd like to point out that I'm physically incapable of crying and therefore your description is lacking accuracy."

Coën's eyes widened in surprise, and he pushed himself up a little and turned to look at Geralt standing at the slab, completely unbothered by the effect of his words. 

"You cannot cry?"

Shaking his head Geralt remained focused on his hands, uncorked the small bottle and drenched the rag with the potion. Putting the empty bottle aside he made sure the rag was properly saturated, carefully sat down on the slab, and lying down on his right side stretched out on it, facing towards the basin, arranging the rag on the surtures on his side. With a sigh he folded his arms and dropped his head onto them, closing his eyes. 

Jaskier in the meantime was busy mentally carding through the past years, wondering why he hadn't noticed and then coming to the conclusion that Geralt's stoic composure just didn't leave room for displays of emotion anyway. How should he have noticed? He had cried into pillows and Geralt's shoulder multiple times while on the road, from frustration or hurt, but then that was what he did, and Geralt turned away and looked embarrassed at the humanity of it all, and that had always been it. He had seen Geralt sad, darkness settling behind those amber eyes like a heavy cloud, but there had always been perfect silence, and Jaskier had never thought it might have had anything to do with the fact that someone one fine day had decided that a witcher shouldn't weep for whatever reason, not once, and made sure to create a being that wouldn't disappoint. 

Coën, however, was confused. Lifting a foot he prodded Eskel in the side to get his attention. 

"Is that a thing with you wolves?"

He seemed genuinely curious, looking at Jaskier who only shrugged. Over on the slab Geralt snorted. 

"No, wolf witchers are capable of crying. I'm the exception."

Coën nodded his understanding. 

"So it's a result of the second trials?"

It was Eskel who answered, sparing Geralt from having to elaborate. 

"And it makes him very useful when it comes to cutting large amounts of onions."

Geralt grumbled something under his breath, but Eskel's answer made Coën laugh and they dropped the topic. Jaskier thought he could almost feel the relief Geralt radiated at not having to talk about this specific outcome of the trials, as negligible as it seemed compared to other things the second mutation had altered about him. 

He remained dozing on the slab the entire time the other three drifted in the warm water, and only woke up again when Eskel declared to have had enough time in the water and prepared to leave, Coën following him suit. Together they left the bathhouse, and Jaskier listened to them in the antechamber drying themselves off, dressing and leaving, all the while keeping the conversation flowing easily. 

Climbing out of the basin as well Jaskier noticed how shrivelled his fingertips already looked, admitting that it was high time he dried himself off. Strolling over to the slab where Geralt was slowly pushing himself up from where he had been lying Jaskier just managed to catch the rag as it slid off his side. Standing close he examined the sutures a bit more carefully, finding them healing nicely, with a speed that was unreasonable even compared to Geralt's usual recovery times. 

Briefly wondering if he could reach out he instead only held out the rag, watching Geralt take it. The warmth in the bathhouse had dried his hair, and it fell in the new cut neatly, just so brushing his shoulders, leaving Jaskier content with his job. But the conversation was still fresh in his mind, and his brain easily presented him with the images he had seen, the memories the spectre had shown him, Geralt fresh off the second trials, blindfolded, blood running down his face from under the cloth like tears. 

"Why did they take the ability to cry from you?"

Geralt looked up, stopping in his movements, for a moment perfectly still as if he were calculating his answers. Then he shrugged, sitting upright fully, swinging his legs over the edge of the slab. But he sounded tired, resigned.

"I have always assumed it was too human."

Jaskier reached out without thinking, his heart painfully cramping in his chest. He watched Geralt raise an eyebrow when he sensed the emotional upheaval, looking up from where he was sitting, unmoving as Jaskier touched his face. The contact suddenly left Jaskier's skin tingling, his fingertips brushing over Geralt's cheekbones gently. Suddenly feeling strangely out of breath he watched Geralt lean into the touch unthinkingly, tired eyes slowly closing. 

But the second he realised he was doing it he pulled back, turning his head away, suddenly awake. He stood up quickly, shaking his head once to clear away what Jaskier assumed was a spell of dizziness. Then he started to clean up after himself, moving around the bathhouse slowly but with determination, not looking at Jaskier once. Unable to do anything Jaskier could only watch, still feeling the ghost of the touch on his fingertips. The sudden change from closeness to distance left him confused, and his chance to find any answer dwindled quickly when he heard the door to the bathhouse being opened, voices and steps coming into the warmth from the outside, Vesemir and Lambert talking and undressing. 

The confusion didn't leave Jaskier all night, remaining left-over from the strange moment. He hadn't even known what he had intended with his gentle touch beyond offering some basic comfort to soothe the weariness in Geralt's voice, and it left him wondering at his own intentions. It felt as if during the past days they had accidentally traversed a frontier they had never before crossed in their relationship and now found themselves in unfamiliar territory, not knowing what to do with themselves there, feeling around for a semblance of control and orientation while trying not to bump into each other before they knew what it was they wanted lest they would fall into a ravine they hadn't known was there, breaking their own necks or even worse, their hearts. 

It left Jaskier reeling just a little, the unfamiliar ground under his feet worrying him. He felt restless and unsure how to progress from there, and it didn't help that Geralt vanished immediately after leaving the bathhouse, exhausted from staying upright for so long, without as much as a look at Jaskier besides quietly thanking him for the help. 

Jaskier didn't have much of an appetite at dinner and sat in the library without finding inner peace, excusing himself early and feeling the glances of the others on him, knowing they worried at his strange behaviour. Taking the long way around to his room Jaskier considered knocking on Geralt's door, walked all the way and then abandoned the idea again when he stood in the darkness of the corridor not knowing what to say, feeling only the threat of the ravine, the inevitable fall. 

Instead he went to his own room and bed, lying in the dim light of the fire buried under the heaps of furs and blankets, listening to the wind howl again around the fortress. He felt tired and restless at the same time, and when he fell asleep the dreams came back with shattering force and expectable images. He watched Vesemir deposit Geralt's lifeless body on a bed, his skin smeared in dark red, head hanging at an odd angle to the side, and then again the scene blurred and Jaskier followed Geralt through Kaer Morhen, the dark corridors littered with obstacles he had to climb but that did nothing to halt Geralt's steady tempo, his back always retreating, Jaskier never reaching him. Again the scene blurred and Jaskier stumbled into a room in the abandoned wing, the moonlight harsh and cold through the broken window panes, and Geralt knelt on the ground in the middle, hands on knees and looking straight forward, dark blood running like tears out of his blackened eyes. 

When Jaskier awoke late the next morning he was drenched in sweat, dizzy from the onslaught of images and tired to the bone. He felt as if he hadn't slept at all, as if his mind had simply once more persisted on torturing him with the most basal fears, leaving him irritated. Briefly he wondered if the spectre had been back, if some unholy entity had once more decided to draw his heart from him by causing a turmoil of emotions, sucking his soul out as it was swelling with feelings he could not control. 

Outside the storm was still howling, and it did nothing to soothe the irritation. Dressing and marching down he was glad to find the kitchen empty, Lambert only passing through once and nodding while Jaskier was eating, but otherwise nobody coming around to keep him company. He washed his bowl and cleaned the table, and then didn't know what to do with himself. He didn't want to see anyone, but with the storm howling he couldn't go outside, and it wasn't as if he could leave the fortress anyway with the snow piled high. All he could do was retreat to his rooms where his unmade bed still stood as a silent witness to the idiocy of his dreams, or wander the fortress like he had done so many times, like he had even done in his dreams. 

Growling to himself under his breath and being surprised at his own impatience he decided to briskly walk the upheaval away, to exercise his body so it might maybe soothe itself with the constant movement. Knowing his way around Kaer Morhen by now Jaskier walked up the familiar staircase, following the pull of his own disconcertment and ventured into the abandoned wing. 

Everything looked like it had done the many times Jaskier had passed through these corridors. It was cold, the window panes broken and the wind coming in through the boards nailed against the openings, snowflakes blowing in from time to time. With his mind cleared from the pull of the spectre's power Jaskier saw everything as it was, and found it even more desolate than he remembered it, dirtier, littered with debris and the broken skeletons of furniture.

He walked around and around, discovered new areas he hadn't been in before, his irritation slowly seeping from his mind and making way for tiredness. At first he tried to keep to the areas he hadn't been in before, corridors and rooms where no ghosts had appeared to him, no horrible scenes had played out before his mind. But the destruction around him left him just as sad, and finally he arrived where he had seen them last, where the spectre had tricked his soul into pouring itself out over what he was seeing, drinking his compassion and love, growing stronger with it while Jaskier had grown weaker. 

Musing over this mechanism Jaskier passed through the corridor he had seen the younger versions of Eskel and Geralt meet again after the first trials and arrived at the door to the room where he had watched the aftermath of the second mutation unfold, pausing in the door for a moment. There was the familiar broken furniture left over, covered in dust, the windows nailed shut. It was dark, but Jaskier knew his way around, past the remains of a bed frame, towards the window. He didn't need much strength to pull the wooden boards away, the nails already rusty and easily giving way. With a loud clatter the boards fell down, pale daylight coming into the room and Jaskier rubbed his hurting palm against his leather breeches for a moment trying to soothe the pain. Then he kicked the boards aside and looked out of the window.

The view opened over Morhen valley, the peaks of the Blue Mountains shrouded in clouds, covered in snow. The strong wind was shoving more thick clouds forwards above the mountains, fast and faster, their thick greyness covering the blue fabric of the sky and making it appear looming low, threatening to fall down. And yet there was fresh air and Jaskier inhaled deeply, smelling the winter outside, the cold clearing his mind. Like everywhere in the fortress the windows were set deep into the thick walls, and Jaskier could easily hoist himself up and sit on the inside, watching the landscape through the broken windowpane, reaching out and touching the sharp edges of the shattered glass with his fingers, careful not to cut himself. 

He had no idea how long he sat like this, keeping the landscape and the lonely ruins company. But his heartbeat slowed after a while, his worried mind stilling its swirling, settling on the image of the landscape in front of him, rugged and dangerous and yet tempting. He looked and looked, and then turned to watch the room, the unmoving shapes and debris, unthreatening now. Careful but with a calm mind he could now turn the things he had seen here around, look at them thoroughly, feeling his emotions well up and die down again with detachment. It was the opposite of the storm of emotions the spectre had evoked in him, and yet it was frightening to be so quiet in the eye of so much suffering. 

Then he heard steps and involuntarily tensed, the calm evaporating, his heartbeat picking up speed. His hands curled up to fists he listened to the steps coming closer and closer, someone walking down the corridor, carefully picking their way through the debris. For a long, terrifying second Jaskier thought one of the ghosts would turn up, walk around the corner and into the room, drag him back into the painful past he had witnessed here against his will, take him apart without any chance to ever free himself again. 

His mind rushed to the worst possible outcome, and he was tensed up in his place on the windowsill when the door was pushed open a little further and Geralt appeared in the door frame. He was dressed as usually and unarmed, a thick dark woollen tunic keeping him warm, dark leather breeches tucked into boots, medallion on his chest. His freshly cut hair was tied back neatly out of his face, perfectly silver white in the pale light. Looking around the room once he came forward, soft steps on the stone floor, and walked to the window where Jaskier was sitting, back pressed against the wall, staring at him like an animal at a predator in his sudden fear. 

Geralt noticed, and stopped out of reach, a frown on his forehead. 

"Jaskier?"

The ghosts had never addressed him, and Jaskier knew that this wasn't a shadow but Geralt, apparently having recovered remarkably in the past hours, strong enough to be dressed and walking around climbing over the debris lying in the corridors when last night he had been barely able to keep himself on his feet anymore after leaving the bathhouse.

Exhaling Jaskier slumped against the cold stones, his left shoulder leaning against the wall, legs dangling. 

"I didn't - are you real?"

The concern on Geralt's face deepened, but he moved in closer, slowly and carefully not making any fast movements lest he startle Jaskier. 

"I hope so. Were you worried?"

Shrugging Jaskier leant his head against the wall, feeling the coolness slowly seep into his body. His frantic heartbeat slowed a little, but somehow he remained critical. 

"A little. But the spectre is really gone, isn't it?"

Geralt nodded, stopping in front of Jaskier but just out of reach. 

"Yes."

He sounded certain but worried, something heavy in his voice. He was looking at Jaskier, scrutinizing, searching for something in his face that Jaskier wasn't sure he'd find there. 

"Really?"

He hadn't wanted to sound so insecure, but the dreams those past two nights had been harsh on him, the lack of peaceful sleep draining him just like the spectre had done. For a moment Jaskier watched Geralt think, obviously pondering his next move. Then he held out a hand and took a step forward, closer to Jaskier. They were almost at the same height like this, Geralt's hand still held out, waiting. It took a moment for Jaskier to understand what he wanted before he allowed Geralt to take hold of his right hand and pull it towards him, gently placing it on his chest, right on top of the medallion. Holding his breath Jaskier anticipated the burn, silver like fire against his skin, pain racing through his body.

But nothing of that sort happened. Instead all he felt was the cold metal under his palm against the almost healed burn mark, the warm tunic where his fingertips were touching the fabric and Geralt's own hand on top of his, the soft press he was using to keep Jaskier's palm against his body, his chest rising and falling with his breathing. His heart was beating steadily, and out of habit Jaskier counted, one beat every four seconds. 

When he looked up he realised how close they were now, so much he could feel the body heat radiating from Geralt, his hair lit up by the pale daylight falling through the window, face earnest but tired, stubble on his cheeks. Without thinking Jaskier closed his eyes, finally allowing his body to fall forward without holding back. His hand steady on the medallion he leant against Geralt's shoulder, turning his head so he could press his face against the hollow of his bare neck, feeling his collarbone and muscles under warm skin. To his surprise Geralt didn't move, didn't even stiffen under the sudden assault. 

He calmly remained where he was, his hand slipping off where it had been pressing Jaskier's palm against the medallion, settling instead around his shoulder and gently holding him. He felt Geralt exhale carefully, leaning his head just a little to the side, touching it against Jaskier's, his breath ghosting along the flesh of Jaskier's exposed neck. 

"Jaskier, you were there, you put my sword through it. You know it is gone, and that it won't come back."

His voice was low and soft so close to Jaskier's ear, and he felt the vibration of it rumble in Geralt's chest more than he heard it. Nodding against his shoulder Jaskier tried to breathe deeply. He spoke against Geralt's neck, voice muffled.

"And what about the things I saw?"

He felt Geralt's hand on his shoulder pull him a little closer, holding just a little tighter before continuing. 

"They happened a very long time ago. You were never supposed to know about them, so just let them go if you can." 

Winding his free left hand around Geralt's side Jaskier buried his fingers in the thick tunic, holding tight, pulling Geralt just a little closer. His warmth was wonderful against Jaskier's tiredness, the stability of his body a promise against the turmoil in Jaskier's mind. And yet in front of his closed eyes he still saw the images of pain and loneliness, the blood and fear, and the helplessness. Shuddering he dug his fingers into Geralt's side, feeling muscles move under his hands. 

"But they happened to you."

Geralt shrugged, and Jaskier felt the motion instead of seeing it. The hand on his back remained still, softly pressing into his shoulder blades. 

"Yes. But that doesn't mean you have to suffer for it."

He tilted his head a little, waiting if Jaskier was listening. When he found no indication to the contrary he continued.

"It's a little like the monsters, if you think about it. Those are my battles, and I know how to fight them. Sometimes it's easier and sometimes it's not, but most of the times it'll be alright."

It made sense, and yet it left Jaskier unsatisfied. 

"So in what category does the spectre fall? Was that an easy fight?"

Geralt sighed, for a moment tightening the hand around Jaskier's shoulder. 

"No. But if it weren't gone I'd try and kill it all over again." 

Suddenly his voice was hard, the edge to it unmistakable, a growl Jaskier felt vibrating through Geralt's chest in the most impressive way. Without realising he did it Jaskier rubbed his face against his neck before pressing into the warm skin again. 

"You did try to warn me."

The hand on his shoulder was tightening a little more, pulling him closer still. 

"I should have tried harder, spoken to you earlier. But things were gliding out of my hands even when I thought I was still in control. I wasn't, and I might not have been for a long time."

Listening to Geralt blame himself Jaskier knew that he was probably right, and yet maybe could not have done anything at all to prevent what had happened. He hadn't asked about it yet, but if the spectre had kept its grasp around Geralt as tight has it had around Jaskier it was obvious that there was nothing he could have done. Making a noise to state that as his opinion Jaskier realised he'd need to be a bit more eloquent if he wanted Geralt to understand. 

"Yes, maybe. But in the end you and Eskel fought the thing, and now it's gone."

Feeling Geralt's body tense under his hands Jaskier felt the need to put just a little more emphasis in his words and lifted his head again from where he had rested it against Geralt's neck, loosening his grasp on his side without removing his hand and sitting upright for a moment. Looking straight at him Jaskier noticed the harsh lines on his face and realised that Geralt had been far more worried than he had let on, that he was blaming himself much more than he'd ever admit. Sighing Jaskier raised an eyebrow, wanting to break the tension, seeing no point in senseless self-hatred now it was over anyway. 

"And let me remind you that you quite spectacularly sacrificed yourself for it. I mean, you do that shockingly often, but rarely this dramatically." 

Tilting his head Jaskier tried to smile, just a little taste of his usual wit, still holding onto Geralt, their bodies so close. 

But Geralt didn't look convinced. His gaze was firmly on Jaskier, but there was something dark behind his eyes that Jaskier would have called fear in a human being.

He held the eye contact for a moment, and then suddenly dropped his gaze, looking down to where Jaskier's hand was still resting on the medallion, splayed out against the wolf head and his chest. 

"This thing - " Suddenly there was contempt in his voice, low and thick, and he inhaled once before he could continue. " - I couldn't let it have you, no matter what."

He didn't look at Jaskier, still staring down at the hand on his chest, as if he were suddenly overwhelmed by emotions he wasn't supposed to possess. It left Jaskier speechless for a moment, because nobody had ever tried to die for him with the determination Geralt had shown, and he hadn't quite expected that to ever happen from someone who claimed he couldn't love. Silently Jaskier looked at his lowered head, feeling the steady heartbeat under his hand and absently-minded counted, without even realising he was doing it, one beat every three-and-a-half seconds. 

And then it clicked in Jaskier's mind, sudden coherence making everything fit together. Not less, Vesemir had said, but more. More of everything, more emotions, more need. More want.

It suddenly made so much sense and Jaskier understood it, because he himself wanted and needed, painfully and helplessly so, but most of all he was just so terribly fucking done with speaking in riddles.

"Look at me."

Obediently Geralt raised his head, amber eyes suddenly warm, pupils slightly dilated in a way that had nothing to do with the dim light of the room, given that Geralt was looking into the daylight the window behind Jaskier let in. He was still breathing deeply, but then Jaskier leant in just a little more, so close they could have tipped their foreheads together. He kept his hand steady on the medallion, counting the heartbeat under his fingertips, one beat every three seconds. 

"Next time you tell me you don't feel, that you don't want or need I'll bloody end you."

And before Geralt could say anything, before he could deny or lie or try to run Jaskier closed the distance for good, kissing him. He felt the little hitch in his breath instead of hearing it, his hand around Geralt pulling him tighter, closer, feeling him yield immediately, giving in like a crumbling wall would fall, without any ability to resist simply following gravity. 

Jaskier was a good kisser and he knew it, but usually he wasn't this excited about something a simple as a kiss, wasn't feeling his own heart beat wildly in his chest, the warmth pool in his stomach like an adolescent kissing for the very first time. 

He leant in a little closer and deepened the kiss, ecstatic that he had been right, that Geralt kissed him right back. And then Jaskier's tongue caught on one of his elongated canines and he couldn't help but gasp, and Geralt positively growled in return. It convinced Jaskier to finally let go of the medallion and reach up, burying his right hand in Geralt's silver white hair, feeling it scrape against the burn mark. Both of Geralt's hands landed on Jaskier's back, sliding downwards. It gave Jaskier the chance to free his left hand and bring it up so he could now have both hands buried in Geralt's hair, dragging his fingernails over his scalp, earning another growl in return. 

They kept on kissing until they needed air, or at least until Jaskier needed air and broke the kiss off. He knew he was flushed, breathing just a little too fast, his hands still twisted in Geralt's hair, holding him close. 

But Geralt dropped his head forward, against Jaskier's neck, mimicking Jaskier minutes before, starting to press kisses against the bare skin there, teeth scraping over it, canines dragging just a little. Jaskier felt his heart pick up speed even more if that was possible, sliding his hands from where they were tangled in Geralt's hair down, dragging them over his shoulders and down his chest with the intention of somehow getting them under his clothing and onto that glorious body. 

But Jaskier had barely reached his chest when Geralt suddenly stopped, stilling out of nowhere. Straightening his back he lifted his head, pulling back. Confused Jaskier blinked, needing a moment to comprehend what was happening, why they had suddenly stopped when they had been well on their way to a rather enthusiastic session of making out right here on the windowsill. 

"Fuck, Jaskier, we shouldn't - " Geralt's voice was barely above a husky whisper, but Jaskier wasn't going to have it. 

"Good gods, shut up and get your damn mouth on my neck again, or even better, get us somewhere without a broken windowpane in my back and a bed near."

He kept his hands spread on Geralt's chest, feeling the rise and fall of it, the still surprisingly fast heartbeat. Nothing about Geralt's sudden hesitation seemed genuine, not when he was remarkably dishevelled, his hair pulled out of the tie and messed up by Jaskier's hands, pupils blown wide with the amber irises barely visible anymore. And Jaskier knew exactly he wasn't looking much better himself, flushed and excited, his heartbeat rushing. He felt the little nick in his tongue where Geralt's canine had caught, so much sharper than Jaskier had expected, and his mouth went dry with sheer want, making sure he projected it clear as day so that even a witcher as thick as Geralt apparently was could smell it. 

But Geralt only stared, obviously on the very edge of his composure, still holding back but already aware he wouldn't be able to do much longer and worried about it. And that was a feeling Jaskier could understand, especially in someone as afraid of losing control as Geralt was, someone who had been told all his life that he couldn't want, under no circumstances, not now or ever, and who believed this lie with every fibre of his being.

"There is no way this is going to end well."

It seemed reasonable, and Jaskier knew it wasn't at the same time. Sure, a decade of friendship and now they were groaning into each other's lips like love-struck adolescents, after all these years of restraint and being travel companions and going away to find a brothel or another willing participant or a calm space for a good wank. They could have made this easier on themselves a long time ago, and they had decided not to. But right now Jaskier had forgotten why, and if he was honest he didn't care anymore. Humans were basic creatures, and right now all his want was focused on getting Geralt out of his clothing and putting his hands on this body, finally, after all these years watching other, luckier creatures do it. 

But Geralt had objections, and Jaskier was a man who needed enthusiastic consent to progress and not a half-worried witcher under his hands. So he pulled his brain back from where it was lingering, which was decidedly not in his skull, and tried to think, somehow, while keeping his palms against Geralt's chest. With a sigh he looked down, collecting his thoughts to say something useful that wasn't summed up in the offer of just fucking the worry away.

"Geralt, it's not going to end well anyway. We'll die, both of us, though the jury is still out who'll kick the bucket first." 

He tilted his head a little, letting Geralt catch up with the words so that they could sink in before continuing. To keep himself occupied or at least make use of the opportunity he let his hands slide down Geralt's chest a little and down to his sides, wanting to rest them on his hips and inadvertently brushed over the sutures on Geralt's left side. He felt Geralt's body tense up, the pain visible in his face for a moment, and quickly removed his hand. 

"Apologies, I didn't think - I didn't want to hurt you." He sighed, replacing his left hand on Geralt's chest instead, starting to draw lazy circles there. 

"But you see, that's what I mean. I just watched you nearly die, and suffer, and even more pain from your past." 

Pausing Jaskier looked up from where his hand was moving on Geralt's chest, straight into his eyes, strangely focused considering the situation they were in, still able to think when Jaskier's mind was barely capable to form coherent words anymore in a haze of desire. But he pulled himself together, holding on just a little longer, knowing he needed to. 

"I guess I always knew I would die and forgot you could, too. And then you just asked me to bury you, you bloody bastard."

Suddenly feeling emotions well up again he needed to blink a few times, looking down, his eyes on the medallion. Stopping his motions on Geralt's chest he instead picked it up, feeling the weight of the solid silver, brushing a thumb over the raised wolf head. His mind was suddenly flooded with sadness, and he only looked up when he felt both of Geralt's hands settling around his neck gently, calloused fingertips against his skin, a thumb brushing unexpected wetness from his cheeks. 

Jaskier exhaled, cursing his mortal softness but still looking at the medallion. 

"And as I said, I will, I promise. But can I not, I don't know, maybe occasionally love you just a little before I do that?"

His voice wasn't quite as clear as he had wanted it to be, but if that hadn't gotten the message across he didn't know what would. And when he finally managed to tear his gaze from the bloody medallion and looked up again Geralt looked like he'd break apart any moment under Jaskier's softness, unable to withstand this when he was left unimpressed when being battered by steel or stones.

So it was Jaskier who did the heavy lifting, anyhow used to be in the lead when it came to things like this, an expert on emotions of any kind and dealings with overwhelmed witchers. Still holding the wolf head in his hand anyway he gave the heavy chain a little tug, and another when he felt Geralt yielding, pulling him down towards him. They kissed, this time slowly and gently, not intending to take each other's breath away but simply sharing the moment, Jaskier's hand twisted in the silver chain. 

When they parted for air Jaskier felt much more sober than before, the sadness having passed despite the fact that Geralt's thumb was finding more wetness to brush away. Looking up into amber eyes Jaskier tried a smile, just to see what would happen, because Geralt still hadn't said a single word. 

"Listen, I won't even write you love songs. Not a single one."

He tried to sound a little cheeky, despite the confusing mixture of emotion brought on by the combination of needy kissing and sudden talk about death and the end of everything. 

And it worked, Geralt suddenly looking so much more like his usual self and not something that could shatter in Jaskier's hands at any moment, an eyebrow halfway raised, a hint of amusement in his eyes. He leant down again, as if for another kiss, but stopped before their lips were touching. 

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but somehow I was under the impression you have already written a lot of those. They seem quite popular, even."

Snorting Jaskier called him an insolent bastard and tugged on the silver chain with a little more emphasis, going in for a proper, long kiss and biting Geralt's lower lip just because he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from Wale Ayinla's magificent poem "Portrait of a boy with grief", from the last verse: "you will open your wounds / and make them a garden/ & explain to the wind the origin of pain". I very much recommend reading the whole thing, it will rattle your bones.
> 
> There's a beautiful piece of fanart for this chapter by Josta(far) on Tumblr for this --> [have a look!](https://jostafar.tumblr.com/post/630457546509058048/it-took-a-moment-for-jaskier-to-understand-what)


	14. And the branches of light sing in the hills /

It turned out that sex was a little more complicated than Jaskier had thought, and it had nothing to do with the willingness of the participants or the lack of a suitable place, but everything with the sutures sitting calmly under Geralt's clothing, hidden from view but very much still there. 

Jaskier managed to accidentally touch them three more times before giving up, having to take in stride that Geralt refused to carry him all the way back to his room but accepting the reluctantly offered excuse that he'd just cut through most of his lateral abdominals and just, for once in his life, couldn't take Jaskier's weight. So Jaskier had to hoist himself off the window sill and stumble through Kaer Morhen all on his own, barely able to focus on his feet while his mind was rushing ahead and his skin still tingling where Geralt had touched it. 

Jaskier only realised that the fact that he had to walk on his very own shapely legs wasn't the worst problem they had the moment when Geralt finally locked the door to his room behind them and instead of sweeping Jaskier off his feet proceeded to unceremoniously crash from the overexertion, the come down harsh and unforgiving.

It immediately snapped Jaskier out of his dazed reverie and arousal, bringing him down to earth brutally, reminding him of what they had just been through and that, while it was now over and the spectre gone, healing would take time and patience, something Jaskier was decidedly lacking at the moment. But he quickly found his footing again seeing how embarrassed Geralt was about the whole situation, unwilling to submit to his body's betrayal but completely unable to do anything against the pain and fatigue breaking him down at downright frightening speed. It left Jaskier to take things into his own hands, quite literally.

Postponing any spectacular acrobatics to a later point in time they had to settle for smaller, more simple pleasures, and as soon as Jaskier got over his worry and Geralt over his embarrassment it turned out to be most endearing, given that they were both well-versed when it came to sex, having already done everything under the sun and then some with various partners over the years. Now they had to cool their desire with nothing but a little touching and shifting, and Jaskier made sure to keep his hands gentle and careful, trying not to aggravate the wounds further, to work with the fact that Geralt was precariously balancing on the brink between pleasure and agony. It shifted Jaskier's priorities, making him do his best to keep Geralt on the side of enjoyment instead of letting him drift off into the searing pain still spreading through his body.

And somehow he managed to and easily found his own pleasure, not only in kisses and touches but also in the way Geralt surrendered himself with all his pain and exhaustion into Jaskier's arms, sinking into him and letting him take the lead. Jaskier easily rose to the occasion and realised that he could barely remember finding this much enjoyment in the simple acts of stroking and kissing and touching in a long time, in running hands over a body and discover in great detail what lay there, looking at Geralt as if he hadn't seen him naked before a hundred times. He dragged his hands over muscles and scars with great precision, savouring what was laid out there for him to touch and enjoy, happily taking control and keeping it tightly, figuring out where the points of pleasure on Geralt's strange and still familiar witcher body lay, and if they needed to be kissed gently or pressed a little more harder. 

It wasn't how Jaskier had thought it would be whenever he had allowed himself to wonder about this unlikely scenario, but then he couldn't have foreseen the spectre and the rather unusual consequences of that particular monster. And yet for that specific moment, with the cold Kaedwen winter wind howling around the fortress and Geralt's battered body shivering under his hands it was enough to satisfy him, even when he noticed that Geralt, despite all his surprising and unexpected capability of letting go, was still somehow clinging to control, still focused even in that moment. 

Still in the end it left them both breathless, dishevelled and clinging to each other, two warm bodies pressed together, their heartbeats slowly returning to their usual pace, entangled and sweaty. It was glorious to bask in the afterglow and Jaskier sighed contently against Geralt's warm skin, still somehow smelling of pine tree and sea salt underneath it all. They'd need to clean up and probably at some point leave the bed, but for now they were simply nestled against each other, resting. 

Freeing himself a little Jaskier moved so he could lie facing Geralt, watching his content face, eyes closed, seemingly on the verge of falling asleep. His hair was a chaotic mess ever since Jaskier had tugged it out of the tie and buried his hands in it, silver white spread around Geralt's head. Brushing fingertips over Geralt's cheekbones Jaskier slowly traced the angles of his face, stubble under his hands, mapping what he had spent so many years looking at, memorising to his heart's content. His fingertips traced a small scar he had never noticed before on the side of Geralt's jaw, wondering where it came from, what had hit him there. He was on the brink of asking when Geralt sighed. 

"Wyvern, a very long time ago. They have poisoned spikes." 

Shaking his head softly Jaskier continued tracing the line and then letting his hand glide down Geralt's neck, over his shoulders and chest, once more following the landscape of Geralt's muscles, the pathways the scars cut into the swell and dip of his skin. So many of those had been already there when he had met Geralt all those years ago, and still many more had arrived later, marks of a long life fighting and surviving. Then his index finger arrived right where the largest suture started, the silver thread barely visible anymore underneath the skin slowly growing over it, Geralt's body healing itself with silent determination. And yet there was still the red line, so dark it was almost black now, and it took Jaskier back to the basement, to the pool of blood and Geralt pressing his palms against the stone floor in the helpless attempt not to drift away on the cloud of darkness the pain brought on. 

Shivering Jaskier took a deep breath, and brushed the memories away. He continued to trace the curve of the suture with his finger as far as he could reach, careful not to touch the wound itself, keeping his touch feather light. 

And yet he felt Geralt tense a little, pulling himself back from the edge of sleep, the pain enough to keep him from sinking into the exhaustion. It was one of the many small reminders that Geralt was well-versed at hiding pain, schooled by years and years of doing just that, easily glossing over suffering he had learnt to keep to himself. 

Stopping his movement Jaskier looked up again, seeing no indication of the pain in his face and yet knowing it was there. With a sigh he brushed his hand back upwards, resting it on Geralt's chest instead, listening to the heartbeat, back to once every four seconds. Briefly Jaskier wondered if he could write a song in this slow rhythm and if Geralt would mind, and then left the thought to float away and focus again on the other thing he was still wondering about.

"Can I ask you a question?"

With Jaskier's hand vanishing from around the sutures Geralt relaxed again, and then slowly opened his eyes. Up this close they were even more impressive, the amber darkened and warm now. It was only when Geralt's face arranged itself into an expression of amusement that Jaskier realised how stupidly love-struck he had to look, and he tried to keep his face a little more neutral. It left a small smile on Geralt's lips, but he only hummed a reply instead of answering. 

"How long was that spectre inside your body?"

Apparently Geralt hadn't quite expected that particular question. But he only raised an eyebrow, everything in his face making it very obvious that he wasn't sure why Jaskier had to ask that specific question now, why they had to talk at all. Then he decided to surrender to the inevitable. With a long suffering sigh he rolled onto his back, raising his arm and waiting until Jaskier moved in closer, pressing himself to his right side, one leg thrown up, head pillowed on Geralt's chest. It was terribly comfortable and warm, with Geralt's arm draped over Jaskier, palm gently but firmly pressed against his back. 

"I guess you have a right to ask." 

Listening to his voice, feeling it more than hearing it Jaskier nodded, and waited. But Geralt said nothing for a moment, and because Jaskier was not a patient man he poked Geralt in the stomach, feeling the abdominal muscles tense. Geralt growled, and Jaskier realised it had hurt, dropping his hand gently and letting it rest where it lay. 

"Now, are you trying to compose a ballad about the spectacular fight you want to tell me about or why are you taking so long?"

Geralt lifted his head to shoot Jaskier a disapproving look, but Jaskier noticed the movement and didn't look up, instead focusing on the view of his hand gently pressed against Geralt's stomach. Dropping his head again onto the pillow Geralt sighed almost dramatically.

"You're insufferable. There was no spectacular fight I could tell you about. I rested in a cave on my way back into Kaedwen after having travelled for days straight in the heavy rain. I was tired and apparently didn't check the cave properly, at least that's what I think happened. The medallion didn't warn me, I couldn't sense anything, so I went to sleep."

So used was Jaskier to the bare-bones descriptions Geralt tended to give of his adventures that he could easily see it, knew how heavy the rain must have been, embellished the few words Geralt gave him with sensations and scents, the wet cold and the unbearable exhaustion, the figure of Geralt taking off his armour to let it dry a little and curling up next to a small fire in what he thought had been a safe place to spend a night. It made Jaskier shudder because it was such a normal scenario, one he had been in himself all the time on his wanderings around the continent, something that could happen to everyone.

"I woke up in the middle of the night feeling like something touched me, but I couldn't seen anything in the darkness. I must have lost consciousness then, because while I think I remember fighting I woke up the next morning in the exact same position, more tired than before and injured."

Jaskier's mind easily painted this image, and could even add in the few emotions, the confusion Geralt must have felt at waking up and being injured with no idea what had happened to him. 

"So you dragged yourself up and continued to Kaer Morhen. And the spectre manipulated you to remain silent, pulling and pushing you around. You couldn't tell anyone what had happened, even if you had wanted to."

He could almost feel the surprise, Geralt looking down at him once more before letting his head sink back again. 

"If you know what happened why did you ask?"

Jaskier shrugged, pressing more firmly against Geralt's side, feeling the warmth of his skin. 

"It was more of an educated guess." 

For a moment the palm against his back pressed into his skin, Geralt's arm around him tightening briefly before easing the tension again, careful not to hurt Jaskier and his fragile human body. 

"I thought I could somehow deal with it on my own, but I suspect that was the spectre's influence as well. But then so many things happened that made it easy to not tell anyone. The wargs attacking me, injuring Roach, tearing my armour just enough, it was oddly fitting as an explanation."

Jaskier remembered the warg dying in front of the cave on the mountain, the ease and speed with which Geralt had taken the beast down, how blasé he had been when Jaskier had commented on the fight. 

"I thought wargs were an easy beast to take down."

He infused just enough sarcasm into his voice, mimicking the sudden arrogance Geralt had shown after the fight. 

"A lot of anything is always a problem, no matter what."

Snorting Jaskier remembered having heard that particular statement before, but he didn't bother to educate Geralt on the source of his amusement. 

"So the spectre manipulated you like it had me. And still you managed to keep it in check, at least somehow. How did you do that? I could do nothing against it, nothing at all."

He shivered involuntarily, remembering the helplessness, the fear. 

"Mental control is a strange privilege witchers have. I admit I found it exceedingly difficult to retain focus, especially in meditation, but somehow it worked. I never expected that I'd ever fight a monster in my head instead of with a sword in my hand, it was a very unsettling experience."

His voice was dry but there was a hint of actual wonder in it, indicating that he had indeed never expected that particular type of fight. 

"And yet your brothers thought your control was slipping. Wasn't that what Vesemir told you? And weren't you worried about it, too?" 

Jaskier felt Geralt stiffen for a moment before purposefully relaxing again, inhaling deeply, letting go of the tension. 

"They did, and yes, I was worried, but for other reasons. I anticipated the thing would search for someone whom it could deal with more easily when it realised I wasn't exactly the type of prey it had been looking for, and that it naturally would turn to you. So I tried to get you away or at least warn you, without much success."

Geralt growled at a memory he wasn't voicing, but reined himself in and continued. 

"And then the thing got you. And I didn't even realise it had happened, and I assume you couldn't speak about what you were seeing."

Jaskier nodded, but his mind was lagging behind, still chewing on something Geralt had said and not quite following his conclusions. 

"Why did everyone think you were losing control? Has that happened before?"

He felt Geralt shake his head, slowly. 

"No."

Confused Jaskier lifted his head, feeling the need to look at him properly, to actually see his face. 

"But why do they believe you might?"

Geralt opened his eyes at Jaskier's movement, looking down at him. He suddenly seemed tired, almost defeated, the weariness Jaskier knew so well unfolding slowly. 

"Considering the spectre tore my memories from me and showed them to you I believe you fully know why."

Raising his head a little further Jaskier looked at Geralt, seeing the clouds of the sadness he knew so well gather behind his eyes. Moving carefully he pushed himself up, stretching so he could reach his face, a gentle hand on his cheekbones. 

"I did see your memories, and I found nothing there that would confirm that fear."

He leant in closer, pressing a kiss against Geralt's jaw, tracing his way down his neck. His hand dropped to Geralt's chest to a place next to the medallion, feeling for the heartbeat, that steady, stubborn witcher heart beating its rhythm undisturbed. 

"But I wonder why they taught you to fear yourself that much, and why after all these years you still believe that lie."

He murmured the final words against Geralt's skin, feeling him shiver and fall silent. For the longest time he waited for an answer, but Geralt only tipped his head back and yielded to Jaskier's words and the gentle hands roaming over his tired and still hurting body.

They emerged after sleeping the afterglow off, hours later, cleaned to their best ability and properly dressed again. They had idled the entire day away in bed, and while Geralt looked more alive than he had in the past weeks Jaskier felt sleepy again already. But now his stomach was growling, demanding dinner, and as if pulled by magic he followed the scent of food being cooked down towards the kitchen. 

He found Eskel behind the pots and Lambert sitting at the table, a tankard of ale in front of him, observing Eskel managing two pots and a large pan at the same time with the attention of someone watching a thrilling circus performance. Peeking over Eskel's shoulder Jaskier happily realised they were having soup and a main course, and when he voiced his delight he noticed that Eskel seemed to be barely able to hold back his laughter. 

The grin on his face grew only broader when Geralt appeared out of the archway into the kitchen. He nodded at Eskel and cast an appreciative glance into the pots himself, closely watched by Lambert, who stared at Jaskier for a moment and then looked back at Geralt, and suddenly pulled a face as if he'd bitten into something really foul. 

Eskel, having watched Lambert, shot a glance at Geralt who suddenly had the most lewd expression on his face before brushing it away and, completely unfazed and calm, walked over and settled down on the bench. Lambert immediately moved away from him as far as the bench allowed, growling, looking as if he'd like to spit out. 

"Fuck off, you're disgusting. Do you have to run around like this?"

Confused Jaskier looked from Lambert's disgusted face to Eskel, who grinned a little more. Geralt only shrugged, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

"Don't act like a blushing virgin, it's not that bad."

Snorting Eskel turned back to his pots and Jaskier suddenly and with ferocious embarrassment realised that both of them knew exactly where Geralt and him had been the previous hours, courtesy of their heightened sense of smell and the fact that, while they had washed properly, the scent of their pleasure was still clinging to their skin. It explained everything, and while Geralt only grinned a little Jaskier couldn't help but allow his amusement to take over, seeing Lambert's horrified expression and Eskel's very dirty smile, and dissolved into full laughter until he needed to prop himself against the kitchen counter to stop himself from keeling over. 

There was no question if and how they were going to break to the others what had happened from that point on. Coën reacted just like Eskel had, shaking his head and looking just a little sad underneath his grin, while Vesemir simply refrained from any comment, pretending as if nothing had happened at all. It was mostly Lambert who made a huge display of his disgust, while Eskel even patted Jaskier's shoulder in passing with approval.

Geralt bore the amusement and bickering with surprisingly good humour, but when he finally was fed up cut the mocking short and changed the topic promptly. It didn't stop Eskel from grinning the entire evening, looking back and forth between them. The actual reason for his amusement only became apparent hours later when they were all seated in the library and Geralt excused himself back to bed to rest his still recovering body a little more. Jaskier stayed behind questioning Coën on literary traditions in Kaer Seren, and at some point noticed a movement, Eskel holding out a hand for Lambert to place a little bag of coin in there, having apparently won a betting pool Jaskier hadn't known existed and was slightly annoyed he hadn't been offered to participate in. 

From then on life in Kaer Morhen took on a slower flow than it had before. The snow still fell heavily outside, the weather being unreliable. There were days of splendid sunshine drenching the entire landscape in glistening light while what seemed only hours later a storm rolled in, forcing them to remain inside. Geralt recovered, his body healing itself day by day until the sutures were closed, skin having grown over the silver thread, enclosing it in Geralt's body as a reminder of what had happened, of another time he had slipped out of death's long, slender fingers. 

They fell into daily routines easily, and Jaskier relished them like he never had before. Without the heavy weight of the spectre on him he could finally find his footing in Kaer Morhen, reclaim the space he had already burrowed for himself in the crumbling fortress. Just like the others he worked whenever it was necessary and possible for him, participated in daily chores and routines, pulled his weight to his best ability. He set his things in order and cleaned his room, washed the blood out of the cerulean tunic and tried to mend it until it was wearable again. 

To Eskel's and Coën's delight he returned to their daily training sessions with ferocious interest, leaving both of them to put him through their workouts, sweating through pushups and repeated kicks, even managing to talk Lambert into a few very useful demonstrations of rather dirty moves one could do with a dagger. It was more fun after Geralt returned to the hall as well, having healed enough to put strain on his body, slowly reclaiming his range of motion and strength. He was careful and took it slow, guided by Vesemir's constant corrections and recommendations, strengthening the regrown muscles and retraining his body to find his balance again. 

It took a week until Geralt was back at full capacity, and being cleared by Vesemir picked a sunny day when they were training outside to throw himself joyfully into full-on sparring. Making use of the rare fact that they could use the entire courtyards around the fortress as battle ground he provoked Lambert and Eskel until both teamed up to fight him and, in an impressive display of strength and skill, set a fast pace for the spectacular fight until he had overpowered Lambert and finally disarmed Eskel, all three of them completely out of breath. Jaskier watched gleefully, and barely an hour later found himself in an isolated corridor crowded against a wall with Geralt's heavy body holding him still, his wrists pinned tightly above his head, pressing into firm muscles and unmoving strength. Geralt's teeth were scraping along his neck as Jaskier craned his head, exposing as much flesh as he could, almost whining against the biting kisses, canines scratching against sensitive skin. 

"Are you alright with this?"

Pressing his hips forward as far as they could go Jaskier needed to catch his breath before answering. 

"Fuck, yes."

That was enough to finally get him pulled up and dragged across Kaer Morhen, all the way to his room where Geralt unceremoniously dumped him on the bed and proceeded to finally, after all these years, inform Jaskier in great detail what the deal with all of that fabled witcher stamina really was. 

It was a glorious lesson, and Jaskier found himself idiotically grinning for the entire reminder of the evening, dumb with the pleasure still buzzing through his body, slightly lightheaded and feeling like he was soaring even higher than usual after good sex.

And yet, while he was caressing Geralt's back as they were drowsing off a small voice told him there was still something left. It had been wonderful and just as he had imagined, but while Geralt had surrendered so much he hadn't yet fallen apart completely, hadn't given up his entire control. There was still that focus, even when he dipped his head back and trembled, and Jaskier wondered why it was there, what it was that required this final holding on, and what would happened if he just didn't. 

He asked that question a few days later, at night, in the light of the fireplace, when they were just sitting together, Jaskier idly plucking the lute while stretched out on the bed, enjoying the fact that his healed right hand was perfectly fine again, only the faint outlines of the burn mark still visible. Geralt was lounging in the armchair, staring into the fireplace, listening and probably not listening at all. 

"So what's the deal with all that famous control witchers have everyone is always talking about?"

He plucked the next string, placed his fingers in the right place and listened for the sound change with the amount of pressure he applied. Waiting for Geralt to answer he played a little arpeggio sequence, the notes drifting towards the ceiling, slow and soft. Geralt turned from the fireplace to look at him, slowly returning from wherever his mind had drifted off to back to reality. 

"You need to be more precise with your questions."

Jaskier shrugged and changed the chord. 

"I'm not sure if I can be. You talked about mental control, but I know that you also have physical control beyond what a human has. It's obvious with the eyes and everything, but how far does it go really?"

Tilting his head Geralt watched him for a moment before accepting that he wouldn't manage to find a way out of the situation without talking. Then he submitted to the inevitable. 

"Very far. Some things are trained, but later helped with the mutations. The ability to push through discomfort, pain, any sensation really. Mental and physical control are tightly linked, they cannot be separated."

Nodding Jaskier shifted his fingers yet again, feeling the tips of his fingers slide over the strings before settling for a new chord.

"Does other sensations include arousal?"

He had intended to sound a little lewd, but Geralt only shrugged. 

"Naturally. With most physical sensations I can choose to acknowledge and do something about them or push them away and deal with them later or not at all."

Jaskier had heard that exact same explanation before when he had asked Eskel about his capability to experience emotions, and briefly wondered if both said the same because they had been trained the same or because they had just come to the same conclusions spending decades and decades in their manipulated bodies. 

"And your senses? Eskel said the second mutation sharpened them further, and that you found it difficult to deal with it in the beginning."

Raising an eyebrow Jaskier basically saw Geralt make a mental note to have a word with Eskel later, feeling slightly bad for giving parts of their conversation away. 

"It did, far beyond what was reasonable. It can be useful, but it's also sometimes problematic."

Geralt looked a little uncomfortable, and again Jaskier remembered what Vesemir had said about pushing the limits of what was possible in mutations, of accidentally creating a being that was more, not less. 

"What happens if you abandon your control over that?"

Geralt sighed, slumping further back in the armchair. 

"A lot, and mostly at the same time."

He looked slightly embarrassed, and Jaskier pushed on, curious to see where this would take them, knowing he was on the right path. 

"If all your senses are sharper it means you can hear more, see more, feel - oh." 

And suddenly he realised why Geralt was holding back, what exactly it was he was controlling. More, not less, as Vesemir had said. Too much. 

"You're hypersensitive to touch."

It made so much sense and at the same time was the worst thing that could possibly happen to a creature damned to be injured and to suffer pain again and again and again, and Geralt nodded with all the resignation of someone who knew they couldn't change their fate anymore.

"They didn't only fuck up the hair in the second trials."

The look on his face was one of sombre stoicism, and Jaskier felt the pang of compassion he knew he'd never be able to show unless he wanted Geralt to run for the hills and never return. So he pushed it down firmly, instead turning to what Geralt had said. 

"So you control everything, not only your body but also your emotions and your senses, all the time." Thinking aloud Jaskier followed the idea through. "That's why the spectre couldn't nourish itself inside you. Your control was too tight, it couldn't find anything. It dug so deep it found your memories, even those you thought you had forgotten, but it still couldn't wrestle anything else from you." 

He was deeply impressed, and at the same slightly worried at the implication. But Geralt only shrugged. 

"Obviously. Without control I can't function, and I've had decades and decades of practise."

He seemed rather unimpressed, but Jaskier's mind had picked up speed, making connections that went far beyond the bloody spectre and all the other terrible things, towards far more pleasurable regions. 

"But you can abandon it at will?"

Geralt raised an eyebrow, apparently wondering where Jaskier was trying to take their conversation, and shrugged. 

"I haven't in a long time, but technically yes."

Suddenly a lot of very interesting ideas sprang up in Jaskier's mind, and he realised he was grinning when he saw Geralt frown. He played a flourish on the lute, watching Geralt scrutinise him. 

"So what would happen if I managed to talk you not only out of your clothing but also your control, at least the one you have over your senses?"

Rolling his eyes Geralt leant forward a little, bracing his elbows on his knees, folding his hands. 

"We're not doing that. It's not particularly flattering for me."

But Jaskier's curiosity was only growing at that. 

"Indulge me. What would happen with your hypersensitive skin if I touched you?"

For a moment they held eye-contact, but Jaskier knew he'd win when Geralt was the first to look away and at his folded hands, suddenly almost endearingly sheepish. Then he growled, rubbing his face with his hands and falling back in the armchair with a huff

"Well, you know precisely what would happen."

Jaskier made sure to project all of his desire into the look he gave Geralt, slowly dragging his eyes over him in the most obviously lewd way and imagining exactly how he would brush his hands over skin linked to a hyper aware sensory system, how he could play with that, what it would do to Geralt to completely and helplessly lose his mind at tactile sensations. 

"Melitele help me, can we try that?"

He hadn't realised how husky his own voice was, and blushed with some enjoyment at his own body's reaction to the mental image he had just managed to unfold in his dirty mind. And apparently his sudden interest was very obvious, because Geralt stared right back, probably being battered by waves of Jaskier's desire even where he was sitting over a meter away. 

"You seem very interested indeed."

Jaskier grinned, completely unashamed at the obvious. It only earned him a calculating glance from Geralt, and instead of doing what Jaskier had hoped he would do - which would be to get out of the damn armchair and join him on the bed - Geralt only turned towards the fire, apparently needing time to think it through. 

Slowly willing his desire to cool a little Jaskier gave him the space and focused on the lute in his hands again, yet leaving his out-of-rhythm-heartbeat project freely, hoping it would convince Geralt to give the experiment a try. 

They sat like that for what seemed like a very long time before Geralt finally sighed and turned back to him. He simply looked at Jaskier for a while and then shrugged. Stilling his hands on the lute Jaskier let the note quiver for a moment before it ebbed away. 

"Do you really want to do that? It's not without danger."

For a moment Jaskier remembered Geralt's hands stretched out on the stone floor in the basement and Eskel's warning not to take them lest he'd break Jaskier's fingers, too strong when left without control, too dangerous. 

"For your ego or my bones?"

Geralt only growled a little in return. 

"My ego will for sure take sizable damage. Your bones won't suffer, though, I'm fairly competent in deciding which parts of my control I can let slip, though usually it's not that part I decide to let go. No, it's rather - "

But he didn't finish his sentence, apparently suddenly running out of words and Jaskier realised that he was mortified at the idea of simply handing himself over like this, of falling apart in Jaskier's hands completely defenceless, overwhelmed by sensations he hadn't granted himself in maybe almost a century. 

Carefully he deposited the lute on the bed and moved, standing up and taking the few steps over to the armchair. In no time he was settled straddling Geralt, their faces suddenly close, sharing breath, but not yet kissing. 

"What's it like when you keep your senses limited all the time compared to letting go?"

Geralt thought about it for a while, searching for a way to explain what was so foreign that Jaskier would never be able to really understand what was happening no matter what.

"Like you playing muted strings, I think. Lacklustre, but more bearable."

That was a metaphor he could work with, taking even the little jab in stride easily. Instead of a reply he simply leant down to finally kiss, ending their conversation for now and postponing any decision into the future. 

But Geralt apparently did not forget what they had spoken about. In the next days Jaskier caught him again and again looking at him, his face neutral and unreadable as ever, and yet somehow curious. By an unspoken agreement they hadn't changed anything in the way they acted around the other inhabitants of Kaer Morhen, leaving their affection to unfold in privacy and otherwise easily continuing their usual banter. It was a perfect balance, their friendship the same it had ever been, with the added benefit of regular and satisfying sex. 

The days flowed past and Jaskier almost thought Geralt had forgotten about his promise to think about it when one evening he caught him on the way up to his room after a long evening in the library, Jaskier singing once more, a mixture of old and new songs his audience readily requested and enjoyed. Geralt had spent the entire night watching him, pondering, but apparently now having come to a conclusion. 

They fell into step easily, upwards the stairs, and they had reached the landing where they had to decide whether they'd sleep together that night or not when Geralt looked at him from the side, frowned and then seemingly pushed himself to say what he had decided he wanted to say. 

"If you still want to - "

He didn't get to finish his sentence, Jaskier immediately closing the distance and kissing him, unashamed in the middle of the corridor. Minutes later they walked through the door into Geralt's room where the fire was already burnt almost down, yet still giving enough warmth. In the low light the room looked inviting, and Jaskier marched in confidently, excitement slowly rising. He carefully deposited the lute off to the side and turned around to find Geralt standing in the middle of the room, looking strangely insecure, uncomfortable. 

Trying to give him a moment to deal with whatever it was he had to mentally arrange Jaskier turned around to kneel in front of the fireplace, reaching out for a fresh log to stoke the fire a little. He found his movements stilled by a hand on his shoulder, turned and looked up to see Geralt having moved closer, looking down, shaking his head. Placing the log down again Jaskier rose, realising why Geralt wanted the fire to die down slowly, why he had probably made sure it would have been burnt down by now. 

"Less light?"

Nodding Geralt moved closer and Jaskier reached out to close the distance. Kissing and slipping his hands under Geralt's woollen tunic and shirt was by now almost second nature to him, but the sudden shiver the first contact of his hands caused came unexpected. But Jaskier didn't draw back, realising that he had no idea how exactly Geralt's mental control worked, and what he had to do to let it slip slowly. Somehow Jaskier had expected some sort of preparation, be it meditation or something else, but once again it turned out that he simply had no idea how a witcher's mind exactly worked, how it felt to live with a mutated body, what it really took to control and deal with a life like the one Geralt was leading. 

But he pushed the thought away, focusing on the much more pleasant task at hand. He hadn't really had many chances to fully take control of their encounters without holding back, not ever since Geralt had fully recovered, and while he had joyfully handed himself over to Geralt's superior strength, the knowledge that now it was him who'd hold the reins in his hands made him giddy with anticipation. 

And yet he kept his hands gentle, his touches soft, having no idea what exactly hypersensitivity meant. There was an actual danger of overstimulation and Jaskier knew he had to be careful to steer clear of that, wanting to cause pleasure and not pain, knowing that what was happening tonight was probably not happening again, and especially not if he messed up. 

Still he had years and years of expertise to draw from, enough confidence in his prowess as a lover not to be intimidated at the prospect of what he was about to do. In no time he had carefully peeled Geralt out of his clothing and stripped himself at the same time when he realised that Geralt's focus was easily drifting off, that the few gentle caresses had already left him with difficulties to concentrate on anything beyond the hands on his body. Calculating his next move Jaskier decided to give him something to hold onto and with light pressure on his chest walked him backwards until he was leaning against the wall, caged between the rough stones and Jaskier's slim body. For a moment he watched Geralt hesitate, and broke free from a kiss. 

"Acceptable? You need to talk to me."

Geralt nodded, letting his head fall back against the wall, exhaling an already shaky breath. It was fascinating to watch how quickly he reacted to Jaskier's touches, pupils already blown wide, the amber of his irises barely visible anymore, chest rising and falling. In the dim light the medallion glinted with every movement, and Jaskier took a moment to brush a fingertip over it, feeling Geralt shiver even though he hadn't even been touched.

"It's different. But fine."

His voice had dropped as low as it could possible go, a husky drawl barely above a rumble, and Jaskier felt his own already quick heartbeat pick up its pace. Finding and holding eye contact for a moment he raised a hand and brushed silver white hair out of Geralt's face, tucking it gently behind his ear, brushing a finger over the sensitive skin there. Leaning closer he followed the touch with a kiss, burying his hand in Geralt's hair, feeling him tipping his head forward so Jaskier could reach around more easily. Finding the small scar behind Geralt's ear from a wound he himself had stitched up a few years ago he gently kissed the skin there, dragging a tongue over the faint line, then blowing warm breath on the wet skin. 

It was such a simple gesture, but it did the trick. He felt Geralt tense against his body, a low hiss melting into a curse, his hands bracing against the wall, palms flat against the rough stones in an attempt to anchor himself. Smiling wickedly Jaskier continued his exploration, hands and mouth wandering, relishing in the easiness with which he could make Geralt's breath hitch, his cursing become less and less coherent quickly at the lightest of touches, nothing but a caress down his throat, a kiss on the collarbone, teeth grazing over an earlobe. It was a spectacle and Jaskier savoured every moment, gently and well-calculated pushing Geralt further and further, just to pull back again and wait until their heartbeats slowed down at least a little, watching for the first time in all those years how a faint blush crept over Geralt's cheekbones, eyes closed in pleasure, the frown on his forehead for once not one of worry or pain. 

His palms remained pressed flat against the stones, holding on for dear life, and when Jaskier decided that they should continue their explorations on a more horizontal level he drew back leaving Geralt already trembling, breathing heavily, his heartbeat so fast even Jaskier was impressed. It wasn't difficult to convince Geralt to follow him to the bed and stretch out on it, and Jaskier eagerly climbed on top of him and finally followed through on all the years of claiming that he deserved his reputation as an extraordinary lover, taking Geralt apart with capable yet gentle hands, expertly and excruciatingly slowly.

It was less sex than worship, and Jaskier knew a thing or two about that. Ever since his days in the temple school he had so despised he had created his own cult, considered himself to be a disciple of the goddess in her most profound form, worshipping not wax images or holy flames but the most powerful feeling she presented herself as. It had always been love he had been looking for, love he admired and venerated in all those bodies he had kept in his arms over the years, sighs and groans the prayers he wanted to send to the heavens to praise the most important gift he as a human had ever received to multiply and pass on. 

And Geralt, whom Jaskier knew to not believe in much of anything, who was too old and too jaded to consider the heavens anything but empty, who knew sex and had been fucked but not worshipped suddenly found himself bereft of everything he usually held onto and still decided to surrender. Stunned by the adoration he stretched out and allowed Jaskier to venerate his body, to deify scarred skin and calloused hands, everything he had been despised for all his life suddenly part of the prayer, amber eyes and silver white hair revered. It was easy to succumb and Jaskier watched him do just that, saw Geralt fall apart under his hands quickly and repeatedly, allowing his body and mind to be set alight not by torches but touches and kisses, wicked hands and Jaskier's unreasonably apt body, burning brighter and brighter while the fire in the fireplace was slowly dying down, leaving the room in a gentle darkness as night settled around them. 

They didn't speak again before the next morning, and Jaskier awoke feeling utterly refreshed and delighted at last night's explorations, finding to his astonishment that Geralt was nursing a sensory hangover as if he had been drinking too much for an entire night and then gotten himself beaten up. He essentially kicked Jaskier out of his bed and forbade him to say a word or open the curtains, curling himself up under the sheets, head hidden in the pillows. It reminded Jaskier that there were more consequences to their actions than he had thought and immediately cleared any idea of repeating the last night's spectacular adventures anytime soon, making him recall why Geralt had been so reluctant in the first place, that there had been more to it than just the embarrassment of losing control with the speed of an adolescent having someone else put their hand down his breeches for the first time. 

Geralt needed almost the entire morning to piece himself back together, leaving Jaskier to deal with his feelings of guilt on his own. So while they returned to a regular pattern of spending the nights together Jaskier did not request a repetition of that particular evening, keeping it as a memory and a reminder of what was possible, infusing their usual encounters with just as much passion and will to worship, finally understanding that there were parts of him Geralt was not going to surrender every time, that there were limits to how much he could give freely and easily without suffering for it afterwards. 

In the most heartbreaking way it reminded Jaskier that Geralt had been created for one single purpose with nothing but utility in mind and that everything else, even if it was possible, was only a glitch in the system, an unlucky accident he had to suffer for. It made him helplessly angry, but when he voiced his thoughts one night all he received from Geralt was a resigned shrug, all the weariness of someone who had stopped struggling against the inevitable a long time ago behind his amber eyes. 

And so Jaskier grudgingly accepted that there was a fracture running between reality and how he thought life should be, and that sometimes he just couldn't bridge it. There were things he could not change, and they included Geralt's forcibly and imperfectly mutated nature as well as his very own defiant will to love and the persistent snowfall outside the windows of Kaer Morhen. 

All three remained stoically unchanged, and Jaskier had to make peace with them. At least the latter two were easy to deal with, mostly because he knew himself so well and trusted his ability to love freely and with the experience of many years, and because the snow remained unbothered by Jaskier's thoughts about it, falling almost daily, piling higher and higher, thick and heavy clouds herded in by the strong winds dancing around the fortress. 

As they were plunging into the darkest month of the year Jaskier settled down for good, finally letting go of the tension and worry, falling into a free flowing sense of peace and calm as it settled over Kaer Morhen together with the heavy white blankets of snow. 

Eskel, it turned out, had been right all those weeks ago in the library at night when he had prophesied Jaskier a boring winter. After all the excitement the spectre had caused it had been difficult to believe, but in the end his decades of experience with winter in Morhen valley proved right. With the days becoming short and shorter still, daylight hours reduced to the minimum of what Jaskier had thought possible, a peaceful sense of idleness settled over the fortress and her inhabitants and life, indeed, became boring. 

They still trained and worked, keeping the courtyards as free of snow as possible, the horses cared for and the chickens fed. But as night came earlier and earlier they spent more time in the library and the kitchen, less prone to outbursts of activity and aggression. There was the odd sudden surge of energy, but it always resulted in whomever the itch hit to be sent out into the snow by Vesemir, being told to blow off steam by dealing with the white plague, to be useful that way and not cause unrest in the fortress. But even these outbursts became rare, and Jaskier watched himself grow more and more sluggish by the day and the witchers seemingly following the same pattern, resting more often, sleeping longer, eating well. Witchers in hibernation, Eskel had warned him, did nothing but that, and finally Jaskier ceded that maybe he had been right all along.

And Jaskier wasn't mad about it. The idleness of his body set his mind free, and suddenly there was time for all the things he had wanted to get done this winter. He copied the elven poetry into his notebook and immediately started to write the lectures he intended to deliver next summer in Oxenfurt, finding more useful and rare books in the library with the help of Eskel and Vesemir, who both turned out to be intimately knowledgeable about the Kaer Morhen book collection and both spent many an afternoon helping Jaskier find his way around the massive amounts of rare tomes. 

At the same time the music came back to him with a vengeance, his spirit suddenly singing after having been silenced by the spectre for all these weeks. In the calm of the snow-covered keep it was as if Jaskier's mind could again spread its wings and soar, the world suddenly singing to him as if he had remembered the magic word he had almost forgotten, his innate capability of listening to the omnipresent whispering returning to him. The first time it happened again he nearly sobbed with relief, feeling himself flooded with what he considered to be the very essence of his being, the muted strings of his soul suddenly ringing out again brightly.

He composed at what even to himself was almost frightening speed. Wandering around the keep and, weather permitting, the courtyards he could barely write fast enough to catch everything suddenly flinging itself at him, the music ever present. His dazed glances and wild scribbling amused his hosts wildly, but their strange stares evaporated quickly when Jaskier started to transform the music he heard in his head into melodies they could hear as well with the help of his lute, working through the basic lines of the songs again and again, sometimes in his room, sometimes in the library, moulding and shaping them, turning them into little crown jewels of beauty. Suddenly they were in awe of his capability of creating, Coën staring at Jaskier whenever he was playing new songs as if it were dark magic he was watching, Eskel being thrilled and admiring what he was hearing, even Lambert and Vesemir watching with silent approval. Only Geralt, who knew very well what music could do with and to Jaskier, refrained from openly gaping at what he was seeing and only shook his head at the astonished admiration of the others.

But by now Jaskier wasn't bothered by that at all. Geralt had already given away too much at this point, and even if he pointedly refrained from praising the music or even acknowledging it he spent many a winter night stretched out on a bed dozing calmly while Jaskier was composing in the armchair, fitting words to melody, singing to himself in a low voice to find a feeling for the verse, sometimes simply playing, the music lingering in the warm air. 

And what music it was. Out of nowhere the Kaedwen landscape had poured forth all its secrets to Jaskier, and out of its rough and ragged beauty he formed the songs, turning the mountains and clouds and storms into music, the greens and blues and greys into sound. The ballads came to him easily, songs of winter and cold, roughness and danger, of a home nearly lost and reclaimed. They were longing and stern, yet intricately woven, of a calm beauty and clear elegance. He hadn't written ballads like this in a long time, and he was delighted at himself and the wonders that flowed out of his lute. 

But it wasn't only ballads, just like life couldn't be made up out of stern beauty all the time. There were the fireplace songs as well, those he wrote for the nights in the library and drunken conversations in the kitchen, for strenuous fights in the dark and heroic deeds by strong warriors. Those were the ones he'd sing in taverns one day, parts of the series of witcher songs he was already famous for, moulded so they wouldn't divulge secrets and yet celebrate those nobody had considered to be heroes worth of music before. 

He knew he'd have to request permission to sing them, but for now he kept them to himself, not even singing them to Geralt whenever he was resting close to Jaskier at night. They were little gifts he planned on handing out at the winter's end, a song for everyone, something they could take with them on the path, for nights at the fire when the way was long and the swords heavy on their backs. And if, maybe, there was the song about the little witcher in there, well, Geralt would have to learn how to cope anyway, and somehow Jaskier had come to the conclusion that he wasn't going to strangle him anytime soon. 

And so time passed. They celebrated the beginning of the new year with a sumptuous feast courtsey of Eskel and Geralt spending two days hunting in the blinding whiteness outside the fortress, returning triumphantly and almost frozen themselves, dragging in enough meat for a three course meal that also included the little albino crabs Geralt had hunted in the lake up in the mountains. 

Eskel prepared them expertly, and Jaskier watched their demise in the boiling water of the pot with mixed feelings, while Eskel seemed completely unfazed at killing the little animals in such a brutal way. They tasted delicious, though, and Jaskier quickly forgot about his inhibitions at the dinner table cracking the albino shells with greasy fingers, sucking out the soft and tasty flesh, remembering the afternoon in the cave and the ensuing chaos in passing. Dropping an empty shell on the pile he caught Geralt's gaze from the opposite end of the table, and rising their goblets both toasted each other silently, immediately caught by Lambert, who made a face as if he was gagging and stole the last crab from the platter to make up for the unspeakable horror he had to witness. 

January came with more storms and more snow, and long nights in the library. Jaskier was finished with the first sequence of ballads dedicated to Kaedwen winter and the first batch of tavern songs, quietly working away on some minor tunes and wrapping up writing his lectures on elven poetry, having never been so productive in a single winter in his entire life. 

The new year was barely two weeks old when he was setting off from the library towards his room on a particularly dark night, having spent the evening playing cards with Coën and losing quite a few coins to his trickery, having had to excuse himself to stop his purse from becoming too empty and leaving Lambert to pick up his slack. Eskel and Geralt had already vanished hours ago, and Vesemir remained sleeping in the chair by the fire. Closing the door behind him Jaskier turned to march towards the staircase, wondering if he could write a scathing song to make up for Coën's quick hands with the cards. Humming bits and pieces of a catchy little melody he didn't look where he was going, rounded a corner and promptly bumped into Eskel. 

He was a few tankards of ale in already, and the sudden impact nearly made him lose his balance. But Eskel's hand fell to his shoulders quickly, stabilising him and keeping him from falling over. Steadying himself with a hand against Eskel's chest Jaskier needed a moment, and then smelt the rum. Another glance up and he noticed the lopsided grin on Eskel's face, immediately knowing that whatever his plans for the night might have been he could forget about them. 

"Songbird! I was just coming to get you. Off to bed?"

With a sigh Jaskier shrugged, immediately was pulled against Eskel and dragged towards the stairs and down to the kitchen. Stumbling out of the archway the first thing he saw was the mighty barrel of ale sitting at the ready, and the smaller barrel of Skellige rum on the table. Next to it was the bottle with White Gull, a delicious looking spread of nibbles including a steaming bowl of pirogi Eskel apparently had cooked while Jaskier had been in the library losing his coin to Coën. The kitchen was warm, heated by a roaring fire, and Eskel steered Jaskier towards the table and unceremoniously pushed him down on the bench. 

There was no way to avoid what was going to happen, and Jaskier resigned himself to another hangover from hell when Geralt appeared from the archway leading towards the pantry, carrying three fresh goblets and a loaf of bread. Minutes later they had assembled everything, and Jaskier found himself on the bench, staring at Eskel and Geralt seated next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, elbows on the table. It looked like an obvious set-up, and Jaskier remained just a little sceptical when Eskel poured the first round of ale and added a goblet of rum for Jaskier and two of White Gull for him and Geralt. They clinked their goblets together before drinking, both Eskel and Geralt downing the content of theirs in one gulp. Jaskier was a bit more careful, fully aware he couldn't match them drink by drink, sipping his rum and putting the goblet down before observing the spread on the table once. 

"Alright, tell me what is going on here. Are we celebrating anything?"

Eskel reached across the table, picked up the bowl with the pirogi and held them under Jaskier's nose. Shaking his head Geralt refilled the goblets from the bottle of White Gull, his face a mild expression of amusement at Eskel's enthusiasm. 

"No. This was Eskel's idea."

Nodding Eskel watched Jaskier spoon pirogi into a smaller bowl before nodding towards the pot with sour cream and the fried onions that had to go on top of the dumplings. 

"Obviously. Listen, Songbird, I was thinking." 

Putting the bowl down while ignoring Geralt's outstretched hand Eskel nodded approvingly as Jaskier added an extra spoon of sour cream to the steaming pirogi in his bowl. 

"That damn spectre showed you all the horror and terrible stuff. But there was so much more than that, and we can't let you depart Kaer Morhen thinking we were doing nothing but bleeding and crying all the time. So, tonight, we'll drink and eat, and then we'll tell you the other stories, the ones the spectre couldn't use. The good ones."

Nearly dropping his spoon Jaskier stared at Eskel and then at Geralt, who only tilted his head to indicate that he had known what he had gotten himself into and agreed with the concept. Feeling the grin spread over his face Jaskier could only nod, and then picked up his spoon again and shoved the first pirogi in his mouth, knowing he'd need sustenance if he wanted to survive an entire night of storytelling and drinking. 

The pirogi were perfect, folded with precision and cooked just right. Having loved pirogi all his life he could appreciate the well-balanced seasoning of the meat, and the just right amount of dough. Knowing when praise was due Jaskier washed the first few ones down with a sip of ale and voiced his delight. 

"Eskel, these are perfect. I have no idea why you're so obsessed with food, but it's a delight."

For some reason his words nearly made Geralt choke on the piece of cheese he was chewing. He needed a good few seconds to regain control, finally chasing the cheese down with half a tankard of ale and then slapped Eskel hard on the shoulder, letting his hand rest there for just a second too long. It was when Jaskier saw the slightly tortured look on Eskel's face that he noticed he had accidentally hit bull's eye once more. 

"I see finding the weak spots remains one of your talents. Listen, we said it was good stories only."

Jaskier scrambled to apologise, but Eskel cut his ramblings short before he could say much. Shaking his head he sighed, and then shrugged. 

"I guess you already know too much anyway, and it was a long time ago. You remember I told you that Vesemir bought me off my family for a few coins?"

Jaskier nodded, noticing how Geralt kept on looking at Eskel from the side, attentive but silent. 

"Right. I wasn't expensive, they were quite eager to get rid of me. You see, they had kept me tied up in a little shed to the side of their small farm, without food for days. Vesemir heard me cry and broke into the shed, and when they noticed offered to take me off their hands so they wouldn't have to let me starve. They were delighted to get some coin and be rid of me, no need even to bury my corpse. That's how I came to Kaer Morhen, and I guess why to this very day I appreciate food maybe more than I should."

He sounded matter of fact and his face remained empty besides a hint of sadness, but Jaskier was no fool and knew exactly how painful the memory exactly was. And it made him hot with anger at Eskel's unknown family, the cruelty of letting a child starve on purpose beyond Jaskier's comprehension. 

"But why were they doing that?"

The anger seeped easily into Jaskier's voice, and Eskel sighed. He looked down at his plate for a moment, and Geralt picked up the conversation with the ease of someone who was finely attuned to another person and knew exactly when to step in. 

"They were afraid of him. Eskel's magic manifested itself at a very early age, and they had no idea how to deal with it. What for some is a gift can be a curse for others."

Pulling his shoulders back Eskel nodded and looked up again, crossing his arms in front of his chest. The short moment of silence was all he had needed to easily regain his composure, and his voice was light as always, free from any unnecessary emotions. 

"They were peasants, and you know how fearful those can be. I've come to the conclusion that they just didn't know what to do with a child they thought was a demon or worse. But I remember starving and the pain, and those memories will never go away. It took me a long time to not consider my magic a curse, even when I went off to Ban Ard and many years after that."

Eskel tilted his head, amber eyes still a little sad. Leaning forward Geralt shrugged, and reached across the table for the bowl with the pirogi. Picking it up he took it towards him, bumping his shoulder ever so slightly into Eskel's when he set the bowl down. Focused on his task of transferring the still steaming dumplings into his own bowl he glossed over the moment by stoically looking down, making sure not to drop any of the slippery delicacies. 

"I'd say it's a gift, but I might be partial considering you just saved my sorry life with it."

He sounded rather flippant about it, but Jaskier remembered too well how he'd thanked Eskel, how even when he'd himself been injured and exhausted and draped over Eskel's back he'd been acutely aware how much it took for Eskel to use his magic. Eskel turned his head and openly smiled, causing Geralt to wrinkle his nose and push the bowl towards the centre of the table, at the same time inching away from Eskel lest he'd get any ideas. 

It broke the tense situation up perfectly, and Jaskier could only grin when Eskel rolled his eyes and helped himself to the remaining pirogi, adding plenty of sour cream and onions and proceeding to devour them at surprising speed. Picking up his bowl to finish off his own pirogi Jaskier waved his spoon in his general direction.

"You promised me stories, now make good on your words."

Jaskier wasn't surprised to find that it was Eskel who easily complied, and his gift for storytelling quickly became apparent once more. With Geralt nodding along in agreement Eskel took Jaskier back all those years to their childhood in Kaer Morhen, and just like he had unfolded stories of young Lambert wrecking havoc in the fortress he now spilled the beans on his own youth. Colourful and with rich detail he explained how witcher training really worked, spoke of long summer nights and cold winter days, and in front of his inner eye Jaskier could see the Kaedwen landscape turn green and bloom, the sun shining on the old stones of Kaer Morhen and the cool water of the lake that apparently lay somewhere down below around the bend of the Gwenllech. 

Eskel detailed forbidden fishing excursions and tumbles into the river bed, young boys wandering off the trail they were supposed to use for training purposes around the fortress and that led through too tempting meadows and lush forests. He had stories of dreaming in the sunshine for entire days hidden behind the large boulders Jaskier had seen when he had walked up the mountain with Geralt, of catching glittering fish in the Gwenllech, of springtime afternoons spend trailing through the forests while learning everything about nature they needed to know for the years living with it on the path that would await them should they just survive the trials. 

But he also had other stories, and in all his nostalgia didn't forget to mention the harsh training, the tiring drill practise, the heaviness of a sword after a long day of working on technique and fighting. He told Jaskier how long it took to build calluses in the hands, how it hurt when a bow string hit the arm again and again and again, of bruises and black eyes, of nights cried through when muscles hurt and the tiredness was just not enough to soothe the fear. 

And still there was more balance in his stories than in what the spectre had shown Jaskier. Eskel spoke of being whipped for not properly caring for his sword but also of sleeping under the stars in summer to get used to living outside, of the joy he had felt at learning how to ride and care for a horse and his mischievous habit of stealing from the kitchen and how often it had gotten him into trouble. 

Jaskier listened and so did Geralt, sometimes nodding, sometimes adding a few details here and there. Eskel kept on nudging him, but he seemed reluctant, almost buried under the avalanche of words Eskel had poured out. Finally both Eskel and Jaskier were staring at him, Jaskier prodding his shin under the table with his toes. 

"Come on, one story. Just one." 

He grinned, and Eskel nodded enthusiastically. Looking from one to the other Geralt sighed, knocked back another goblet of White Gull and then shrugged. 

"If it will shut you both up. When I was about thirteen I took my sword and ran from Kaer Morhen. I took the small path leading around the defence walls at night, thinking I could get up the mountains and around, towards the lower valleys. Of course that did not work out."

Briefly he paused, and Jaskier remembered the gorge, the walls of stone rising, impossible to climb for a human, even less for a boy of thirteen years with a sword on his back. Hadn't they said they were going to tell him happy stories? Throwing a glance at Eskel he watched him nod along, of course well aware of where this story was going to lead. 

"Obviously I ended up in the gorge and that was it. But when I tried to turn back and leave the same way I had come there was a wolf waiting for me at the end, seeming to me a huge beast in the moonlight."

Jaskier only stared. 

"So what did you do?"

Shrugging Geralt reached for the bottle with White Gull and refilled his goblet. 

"Well, I killed it. First monster taken down, I was rather proud of myself."

Groaning Jaskier dropped his head into his hands.

"That's what you call a happy story?"

Looking genuinely flustered Geralt looked at him and then at Eskel. 

"Isn't it? I didn't die!" 

Snorting Eskel reached for another piece of bread. 

"No, but even I remember you getting whipped to an inch of your life afterwards. Vesemir had been so worried and then so angry he might have just killed you, and you had to beg for forgiveness, promise you'd never run again and then scrub the floors for month afterwards."

Shrugging Geralt moved his shoulders, a barely conscious reaction to the memory of the painful punishment. 

"And yet Vesemir went out to get the dead wolf, skin it and later gifted me the fur. I had it until the siege, although it wasn't looking good anymore after all those years."

Chewing on his bread Eskel nodded. 

"We were damn jealous of you, having that bloody fur in your bed in winter, all warm and snug. And you were bragging terribly, as soon as you had stopped crying every time your shirt stuck to the whip marks on your back."

Geralt had the decency to look at least a little remorseful, and picked up another piece of cheese. 

"And I thought you always wanted to sleep in my bed because you liked me."

He pretended to be hurt by the revelation, and Eskel nearly chocked on his ale and patted Geralt's shoulder just a little. 

They continued in this way, Geralt offering a few bits of a story for every few long anecdotes Eskel told, detailing how he'd gotten knocked unconscious on accident by a fellow adept wielding a wooden sword with a lot of force and not much control, how he'd learnt how to swim and nearly drowned but later discovered that he very much enjoyed it and started to creep out of the fortress in summer to swim in the lake, how much later, after the trials, him and Eskel had gone on long excursions in the surrounding mountains, climbing every single one of them over the course of a long summer, sleeping in caves and under the stars, fighting their first monsters together and standing high above the world looking down to see the valley and fantasising about what was awaiting them. It was that final story that made Eskel smile while Geralt told it, and Jaskier watched him nod along and obviously relive that one splendid summer, when there were only him and Geralt leftover, tied together by that fate and mutual affection, back to back against the world and whatever monsters it might hold.

Geralt was barely done with his tale when Jaskier heard steps on the stairs leading down into the kitchen and Lambert stumbled out of the archway. He seemed on a mission to recover more alcohol for the library, and without even looking at the table staggered into the pantry. Jaskier heard him rummage around, and a short time later he returned wielding a bottle of clear schnapps. He was already on his way back when he cast a disapproving glance at the table, noticed Eskel smiling at Geralt, still lost in his memories of that one long summer, and stopped. 

"So what's going on here, are you planning for a threesome now?"

Jaskier turned around to look at him and snorted while Geralt shot him a mildly annoyed glance. Eskel only raised the eyebrow on the uninjured side of his face, but then leant sideways, rising to the challenge. Still smiling he put a hand on Geralt's shoulder and dropped his chin on it, pouting just a little and fluttering his eyelashes at Lambert. 

"Would you care to join us, brother? Living out your fantasies?"

There was more honey in his voice than Coën usually put on his kasha, and it did the trick. Lambert looked as if he was about to gag, and Jaskier had to fight a hard battle with himself not to choke on his laughter. Eskel remained draped against Geralt, obviously trying to look as endearing as possible while failing spectacularly at it. So he pushed himself up a little again, lifting his head from Geralt's shoulder but keeping close, picking up a strand of silver white hair and twisting it around his index finger while still pouting at Lambert. 

Geralt seemed to fight the impulse to throw Eskel off the bench, shooting Lambert an accusing glance of look-what-you-made-him-do, and when Lambert recovered from his obvious desire to gag, both for a brief moment had the exact long-suffering expression on their faces. 

"You're gross."

Wrinkling his nose Lambert pulled the cork off the bottle of schnapps and took a long swig, apparently to wash the image from his mind, something Jaskier knew never worked. 

Eskel continued to pout, but finally let go of Geralt's hair and leant forward, elbows on the table again. 

"And that from someone fucking a cat witcher."

Lambert nearly spit the schnapps out, but Geralt seemed interested, albeit slightly disapproving.

"Didn't know you're still doing that." 

Coughing and trying to regain his composure Lambert nodded and cursed incomprehensibly. Geralt, unbothered, continued. 

"Have you told Coën? You could take the medallion he still has, I was under the impression he'd like to have it returned to a cat."

Jaskier was impressed how quickly Geralt could go from bantering to actually thinking of something useful, but Lambert was still dealing with the issue of breathing, the sharp alcohol probably burning in his throat. Propping himself up against the kitchen counter he finally regained his composure, replacing the cork on the bottle. 

"Fuck off, I do whom and what I want, it's none of your damn business. And what, am I Coën's messenger boy now? Should I take the cat medallion I know you have with me as well?"

Shrugging Geralt tilted his head. 

"Are you even old enough to do anyone?"

His voice was bone dry, and Lambert looked like he was close to throwing the bottle across the room at Geralt's head. But he reined himself in, probably mostly to protect the precious schnapps, and with a string of very colourful curses stumbled back through the archway and up the stairs, headed in the direction of the library. As soon as he was gone Eskel broke into laughter, picking up his own goblet and taking a deep drink. 

"Adorable as ever."

Jaskier was still amused over the exchange, but even like that he wasn't sure if anyone in his right mind could ever call Lambert adorable. But Eskel had a soft look on his face, absolutely meaning it. Geralt, however, disagreed. 

"He wasn't even adorable when he was a toddler, and I highly doubt he will ever change."

Eskel laughed and nodded, and Jaskier remembered what he had learnt about Lambert's way to Kaer Morhen. 

"So how old was Lambert when he came here?"

Geralt shrugged, focusing on the food again now that Lambert was gone and Eskel making no further attempts to lean onto him. 

"Too young. He could barely talk, and didn't for a long time after coming here. But he could cry and did."

Nodding Eskel reached for his tankard with ale, found it empty and got up to refill it from the barrel, talking as he went. 

"Dear gods, did he cry. Every day and every night, it was impossible to calm him down if you weren't dragging him around. He'd sleep perfectly well draped over you, but put him down and he screamed bloody murder. Kept the entire fortress busy for years, that bastard."

Eskel sounded exasperated even just thinking about it, but underneath it Jaskier easily picked up on the fondness. Geralt nodded and looked pained, as if the indignant screaming still resonated in his too sensitive ears. 

"It was dreadful. Sometimes I still look at him and remember him falling asleep on my chest drooling into my tunic."

Snorting Jaskier tried to imagine that and couldn't, feeling for a moment sad that the bloody spectre hadn't shown him these memories, why the damn thing hadn't been feasting on fondness and love instead of sadness and terror. 

Eskel nodded in mock seriousness, but then switched the topic before Jaskier could enquire further into the intricacies of how exactly child rearing in Kaer Morhen had worked with a boy too young to sleep on his own, and probably too afraid of being abandoned again to let go of whoever took care of him. 

"So you still have that cat medallion?"

Looking at Geralt from the side he seemed genuinely curious. Without looking up from the table Geralt nodded, reached over and sliced a good piece of sausage off. Wrapping it into a slice of bread he ate it with great attention, and even Jaskier could pick up on the fact that he wasn't keen on talking about this particular topic. It did nothing to stop his curiosity, though, because while he could think of a variety of reasons why Geralt could own a medallion belonging to another witcher none of them were particularly endearing. Sorting through them he tried to make sense of a few more likely ones, and then gave in to the fact that he wouldn't know if he didn't ask. 

"How come?"

Geralt chased the sausage down with the ale, and when he put the tankard down found both Eskel and Jaskier staring at him. Growling he shot Eskel an irritated look, making it very obvious that he hadn't wanted to talk about that particular topic, not tonight and preferably not ever. 

"It's still here, if that's what you want to know." He looked at Jaskier, no less unwilling to answer the question and yet giving in to his curiosity. "And no, I did not have a love affair with a cat witcher decades ago."

He sounded beyond annoyed, but Jaskier detected that there was something else lingering there, for a moment wondering if he should push the issue further. To gain time he picked up the goblet with rum, taking a sip. But Eskel had far less patience and took the matter into his own hands. 

"Indeed I wouldn't call a battle a love affair, not when it ends with you killing someone."

Jaskier nearly dropped his goblet.

"You killed another witcher?"

With a heavy sigh Geralt dropped his hands onto the table, staring at Eskel with a glance that could have wilted flowers. But Eskel was no flower and remained completely unbothered, shrugging and tilting his head a little.

"What? You did, there's no need to be ashamed about it."

But from his face it was obvious that Geralt did not share his opinion, staring at the table for a moment before shrugging. 

"I thought we were telling happy stories tonight."

Smiling wryly Eskel shrugged. 

"Isn't it a happy story according to your own standards? You killed the beast and survived, after all."

It was supposed to be a light-heartened comment, but Geralt whipped around and growled at him, for a brief moment baring teeth. 

"Don't call him a beast, because he wasn't."

Surprised Eskel raised the one eyebrow he could still move, and patted Geralt's shoulder in the same way one would do to soothe an annoyed and particularly large dog. 

"Alright, I won't. Now tell Jaskier the story or he'll die of curiosity."

Moving away from his touch Geralt crossed his arms in front of his chest. He growled just a little more, eyes still narrowed, practically radiating unwillingness. And yet he looked at Jaskier, his open curiosity, and gave in once more. 

"If you must know. First you have to know that cat witchers have a reputation for taking contracts on anything, monsters, humans, doesn't matter, if someone pays them to kill it they will." 

Remembering the small comments Geralt had uttered about cat witchers here and there Jaskier realised that this had to be the reason for his disdain, immediately knowing that this practise was basically impossible to bring into line with the code the wolf witchers kept to, that Geralt specifically kept on quoting. As if he knew Jaskier's thoughts Geralt nodded and continued. 

"So this one had taken a contract on my head. I never found out who wanted me dead, but then it happens from time to time."

Snorting Jaskier nodded, knowing fully well that even today, right in this very moment, there were people around who'd love nothing more than to have Geralt's head presented to them on a plate. But then Jaskier's head could probably rise high prices at an auction as well, something he sometimes was strangely smug about. 

"So he tried to kill you and ended up being killed by you?"

Geralt tilted his head in agreement. 

"More or less. He stalked me for a while trying to find the perfect moment for an ambush, but I had of course noticed him and lured him where I thought I could fight at an advantage. Yet when the fight came it was long and arduous. You've never seen a cat witcher fight, because you'd be dead if you had, but they are incredibly fast and highly skilled."

Eskel had turned on the bench, facing towards Geralt, one elbow leant on the table. 

"I remember you told me you thought you'd lose."

Shrugging Geralt ceded the point. 

"It seemed possible. I don't think I've met a better fighter in all those years, his sword work was spectacular."

Leaning forward Jaskier tried to imagine what that had looked like and fell short. 

"And yet you killed him."

There was nothing Geralt could do but nod. 

"I tried very hard not to, but he wouldn't have it, didn't understand I was trying to tell him to leave to save his life and not mine. Only in the very end it occurred to him that he had made a grave mistake underestimating me, not knowing what I was. I hadn't been on the path for a long time by then, and even amongst witchers it hadn't yet made the rounds what they had done at Kaer Morhen. In the end I had to kill him, there was no other way." 

He sounded still very matter-of-fact, but it was obvious that it wasn't a happy story to tell, no matter if he got out alive in the end and his opponent dead. 

"I remember you didn't tell us that year when you came back to Kaer Morhen but only much later."

Eskel tilted his head, apparently remembering the moment well. 

"Cats have yellow eyes like we wolves do, and I'll never forget the look he gave me the second he understood what I was, or rather wasn't, the moment he considered pulling his silver blade on me, the surprise and disgust. It stayed with me for a while."

It was easy to see that it still was there to this very day, that this fight was one Geralt would probably never forget. Eskel kept on looking at him, following his own line of thoughts.

"I always wonder why so many insist on dying by your sword, it happens to you surprisingly often. Maybe they know you have qualms about it?"

Geralt only shrugged and Jaskier remembered Blaviken and what he knew about it, what it had done to Geralt. 

"I've stopped trying to understand what I cannot change. It makes it easier in the long run."

Eskel smiled slightly woefully. 

"Are you turning wise in your old days?"

Snorting Geralt picked up the goblet with White Gull and sipped. 

"I'd rather not. We're witchers, Eskel, we don't need to be wise. Nobody listens to our words anyway. And frankly speaking I'm glad they don't, I don't want that responsibility. The sword on my back is heavy enough already."

Nodding his agreement Eskel continued to look at Geralt. 

"Heavy it is, and yet without it we wouldn't know how to carry ourselves. So, if you don't want to be wise, what do you want?"

Putting the goblet down Geralt raised an eyebrow. 

"Are you reminding me of my own words? Nothing."

Jaskier leant forward, elbows on the table. 

"Ah, but come on, there has to be something."

Looking at him Geralt took a moment to think, keeping his eyes on Jaskier, suddenly lost in thought. Then he shrugged. 

"If I have to. Maybe another year, another summer. To lie in a meadow in full bloom and wait for time to pass. A warm breeze carrying the scent of warmth and the forest, and then when night falls the stars above and the earth below. Maybe a little coin in my purse and Roach nearby, and no blood on my swords for the moment. That's it."

It was such a peaceful scenario and at the same time something so small, so easy to obtain that Jaskier thought he felt the pang of sadness. Eskel seemed to feel it, too. 

"Never knew you were such a romantic, brother."

Suddenly looking slightly embarrassed Geralt shrugged, busying himself with his empty tankard, getting up to refill it and taking Jaskier's with him at the same time. It broke the moment, and Jaskier decided to save Geralt from being questioned further by returning to the original topic, and interrogating Eskel instead. With the ale, rum and White Gull flowing freely they easily slipped back into the storytelling they had set out to do in the first place, and Eskel gladly offered more stories of his childhood and later years, now once again including a very young Lambert into his vivid descriptions of life at Kaer Morhen before the siege. 

Geralt returned to his original stance of listening and nodding, adding little details, but not talking much more himself. He seemed satisfied that the attention was away from him now, and he focused on the food and drink instead while Jaskier kept nudging Eskel on, demanding more stories. 

It was only when suddenly he noticed things he had seen in the very first weeks the spectre had shown him memories that he added details to Eskel's stories, prompting Eskel to question him in return. And Jaskier repeated the things he had seen, not the grisly emotionally charged scenes of later weeks but the very first ones, the little boys running around the fortress, weaselling around the stables, their laughter and joy. It was now that Eskel could put names to the faces Jaskier had seen and could describe, and Geralt helped where Eskel faltered. 

To Jaskier's surprise both seemed to have problems when it came to remembering the boys they had grown up with, gaps apparently torn into the fabric of their memories by the trials. But together they could piece their past together, suddenly stumbling over names again, putting faces to them with the help of Jaskier's descriptions. Fascinated he watched both of them dig deep within their minds, both astonished when they realised that there were still bits and pieces they just needed to put together. Jaskier knew the memories still had to be there, given that the spectre had managed to find them within Geralt, but apparently they had made peace with the realisation that they just had forgotten, and never really questioned what they had thought to be the truth. 

Finally Eskel ate the final piece of cheese that still had been sitting on the wooden board and yawned. 

"You know, Songbird, I'm a little jealous. My memories are fragmented at best, and there you are, having seen the boys we grew up with and had almost forgotten. And even now that I remember their names I will never see them again, and their faces will fade from my mind very soon."

He propped his elbow up on the table, suddenly looking tired, his amber eyes sad. Geralt looked at him from the side and nodded. 

"It's difficult to remember, and it won't become easier."

Eskel nodded.

"The trials, the time, it just melts away. We're just too old, maybe."

Geralt tilted his head, but he kept on looking at Eskel. 

"Yes. Maybe one or two will linger in our memories, but the rest will just be gone."

Turning to look at him Eskel smiled a little. 

"One or two? Any favourites?"

There was a hint of a smile on his lips, but Geralt only shrugged. 

"Dusko, maybe. I haven't thought about him in years, but now I feel like I even remember his voice."

Eskel nodded, straightening his back, turning fully towards Geralt. 

"Dušan! If I remember correctly you were badly in love with him."

Humming an answer Geralt looked at a point over Eskel's shoulder for a moment, staring into nothingness briefly before focusing again on him.

"Well, if one can be at that age, and he was what, fourteen, fifteen when he died? It was a very long time ago, things were different."

With a sigh Eskel agreed.

"Yes, it was. We were different. And yet, would you want to go back?"

Geralt shrugged, looking at Jaskier for a moment. 

"It doesn't make sense to think of it that way. We cannot find a way back, there is none. We can only go forward."

Jaskier snorted, knowing fully well that Geralt had the slight tendency to say things like this when he was drunk and let his melancholy run wild, his meagre philosophical tendencies unchecked. He couldn't help but tease, just a little, for good measure. 

"Maybe you will become the Wise Wolf, after all." 

Eskel agreed, smiling at Jaskier and then at Geralt. 

"Indeed, you'll make Vesemir pale in comparison. Just give it a few more decades." 

Rolling his eyes Geralt picked up the goblet.

"A few more decades? That's a lot."

He knocked down the drink and reached over to refill the goblet, doing the same to Eskel's in passing who watched with an appreciative nod.

"We'll cope, brother. We'll cope."

Geralt placed the bottle down and picked up his goblet. 

"Indeed, I hope we will." 

They raised their goblets, and Jaskier watched them clink them together, looking at each other for a moment, lost in their respective thoughts. It was Eskel who finally smiled.

"To those who were." 

Geralt nodded, not looking away from Eskel. 

"To those who are."

They drank, and then refilled their goblets quickly and raised them to Jaskier, who echoed the toast and knocked the rum back. 

It was much later that Jaskier finally lay in bed, his head swirling with the stories and the unholy amount of ale and rum he had consumed, the dizziness pleasurable but already warning him of the hangover he would surely have the next morning. But right now he wasn't bothering to think about it, not when he was stretched out on the bed comfortably, lying face to face with Geralt who was already on the verge of dropping off into sleep, eyes closed, relaxed. The fire had almost died down, the room dark but for the last warm glow. 

Brushing a gentle finger over Geralt's cheekbones Jaskier hummed under his breath, a new song slowly unfolding in his mind. He listened to Geralt sigh contently, leaning a little into the touch, just a fraction, the movement barely there. 

"So it wasn't all bad, was it?"

Jaskier's voice was barely above a whisper, but Geralt nodded in reply. 

"It rarely ever is. We just sometimes forget about the good times, they don't last in our minds as long."

His voice was low and husky, heavy with sleep already, and Jaskier thought he felt the rumble in his bones. He slipped his hand around Geralt's head, burying his fingers in the silver white hair.

"I will make sure to sing of those, then." 

It took a moment, but then Geralt blinked, slowly opening his eyes, amber turned to molten gold in the last flickering light of the fireplace, and leant ever so slighty forward so they could kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you care to read extra-content: stillmadaboutpetra wrote a wonderful companion piece to this chapter called ["we are alive; that's enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25842106) about Eskel and Geralt as young witchers exploring the mountain, which is heart-breaking and so lovely and which I can't recommend enough. 
> 
> (This is to replace an old note asking whether readers wanted extra-bonus content at the end of this fic. Thanks to all of the lovely feedback I got the bonus material was posted and can now be found at the end of the fic. That also included a "Chapter 0", which was originally supposed to open this fic up but was cut from it it later. See notes at the end of the bonus chapter for more info. Thank you to everybody who participated in the poll!)


	15. And the branches of light sing in the hills / slowly we return to earth

Spring came late in Morhen valley, winter clinging to the sides of the mountains for much longer than Jaskier had anticipated, the grey skies and heavy clouds lingering over the valley as if the peaks of the Blue Mountains were holding them hostage. But finally the wind picked up, and one morning in February Jaskier woke up to feel the pressure of the air on his skull, looking out to find the usual flurry of snowflakes replaced by a thick wet curtain of constant rainfall. 

It kept raining for the entire week, drenching the broken stones of the fortress, colouring everything darker than it already was. But the snow started to melt under the onslaught of water, the courtyards becoming visible again, turning once more into muddy swamps impossible to cross without ruining one's boots. In the distance the now loose ice came crashing down the sides of the mountains, avalanches roaring in the night more often. 

And then there was sunshine, one morning suddenly out of nowhere, the sky above the valley of a weak blue. Opening his window Jaskier inhaled deeply, the air still cool but crisp, carrying the scent of new green, life slowly unfolding after lying in wait under the heavy blanket of snow the entire winter. Suddenly the wind seemed softer, caressing Jaskier's face as he went outside to help Lambert bring the horses down to the paddock instead of biting at his nose and ears, the cold no longer making him want to return inside immediately. 

Nature slowly awoke around the fortress, and so did the inhabitants of Kaer Morhen. Training sessions were relocated to the drill grounds outside immediately, the infernal machine Jaskier still found slightly unappealing set into motion again after having been buried under snow for month. Every day someone would ride off to explore how far the snow had already retreated, which parts of the valley were accessible again. Lunchbreaks now mostly consisted of reports on the state of the roads out of the valley, whomever had ventured out early in the morning returning in time for food, covered in mud and usually drenched by still unpredictable rainfall, but faithfully updating everyone before vanishing to dry off and clean themselves up as much as possible. There was a constant fight over who had left what type of dirty footprints where, and whoever was on kitchen duty tended to watch the door to the courtyards like a hawk, resulting in more than one skirmish involving wooden stirring spoons and flying pots.

Jaskier watched these small indoor battles with amusement, taking them as exactly the signs of impatience settling over the witchers that they were. They had spent all winter holed up in the fortress, having only the drill sessions and their mock battles to let off some steam, and now it was obvious that they were itching to move again. 

He wasn't surprised about Geralt's suggestion to undertake patrols around the fortress to finally decimate the warg population that he had his unfortunate encounters with the previous autumn. He didn't need to convince anyone when he proposed the idea one evening at dinner, and after having spent most of the evening listening to them negotiate the exact concept Jaskier watched with some amusement as Lambert and Coën readied their horses the next day and rode from the fortress with a speed and enthusiasm as if they were fleeing for good. They returned two days later, exhilarated by their success in tracking and killing the monsters, carrying their trophies tied to their saddles. Listening to them brag Jaskier watched Eskel and Geralt exchange a glance and roll their eyes, apparently disagreeing about their battle tactics but nodding along with all the clemency of two wise old men. 

They left the same evening, without telling anyone but Jaskier who watched Geralt wrap himself in the layers of his armour and liberally distribute weapons all over himself. Accompanying both of them out of the fortress he watched as they made their way through the lower courtyards, vanishing through the hole in the defence wall Jaskier knew from his excursion with Geralt up the mountains, slinking off into the dark night in complete silence, their silhouettes with the silver swords on their backs quickly melting into the dark landscape. 

It was Lambert who finally questioned Jaskier about their whereabouts the next morning, shaking his head and growling to himself. It wasn't until dinner the same evening that Jaskier got treated to a lengthy discussion on the benefits of various hunting techniques between Vesemir, Lambert and Coën. He could only suppose that all of them were excellent hunters, but in the turns and twists of their long conversation it became obvious that while all of them had the same benefits of moving fast and almost silently it seemed that stealth hunting was a speciality Eskel and Geralt had perfected over the years, no matter if they were looking for dinner or a monster, while Lambert preferred a more direct approach and full on confrontations, considering anything else not much better than backstabbing and not quite honourable. 

Having watched Geralt survive more than one battle based on his skill to remain undetected for as long as possible Jaskier wasn't quite sure if he agreed with Lambert's theory that stealth was just another word for lazy, but he had no intention to get involved in the conversation at all. Instead he listened, and when Coën started to detail a few very adventurous techniques griffin witchers applied when hunting flying beasts he could only listen in astonishment. It reminded him once more that griffin witchers were different from wolves, and he used the next days to continue pestering Coën about more of these differences, gently nudging him to talk more and more. And now that Coën was used to Jaskier, stories of his time in Kaer Seren and the way of life griffins preferred came flowing from him freely and easily. It maybe had something to do with the enjoyment with which Jaskier listened, his entire attention on Coën and his stories, the wonder and astonishment projecting freely. Coën flourished under Jaskier's curiosity, and to his delight turned out to be a storyteller easily capable of matching even Eskel's talent. 

So Jaskier sat in the library at night watching Kaer Seren rise from the ashes in front of his inner eye, thought he could hear the gulls circle the elegant towers of the castle, listened to the griffins roaming the mountains surrounding it screech in the night. He could see the sun rise over the horizon there, golden light falling over the distant sea, the air smelling of salt even this far up, the coast seemingly close enough to reach for it. Coën had wonderful words for what had been his home and his love projected clearly through them, and the music his narrative sparked undulated around them in the dark library, Jaskier humming under his breath while dreaming of far away lands and times long past. 

At night he lay alone in his bed buried underneath his furs, musing about why everything had to come to an end, how all of the witcher schools had fallen now, Kaer Seren destroyed, Kaer Morhen nothing but a shadow of its former glory. Time passed and it wasn't kind, and yet Coën's memories had been enough to wrench what had been his home from the past's tight grasp for one night, his words able to traverse time and space and take Jaskier along, more powerful than swords or fire could ever be. It was this weapon Jaskier preferred most and that he knew was sharp, a precise blade that could be wielded with devastating impact if necessary, fighting back the greedy fingers of the passing years, stronger than the flow of the sand falling down the hourglass. 

In his dreams he walked the coast that night, seeing the light dance on the waves, breathing the salty air, the sky above him endless and of a deep cerulean blue. 

After five days he started to wonder what exactly Eskel and Geralt were doing in the mountains surrounding the fortress, but since nobody seemed particularly bothered about their prolonged absence Jaskier tried not to worry. He was busy enough himself, still writing songs, putting the finishing touches to more lectures on ancient poetry than he'd ever have time to deliver that summer term in Oxenfurt, exercising Biel and, if he was honest, himself now that they could go outside again. He went with Coën on small excursions outside the fortress, watching Biel wade through mud, exploring the first green shooting up in the forest. Lambert needed only a little convincing to teach Jaskier some more quick moves with the dagger, being a surprisingly capable teacher albeit one who'd rather bite his tongue off than praise anyone for anything. But Jaskier didn't mind, used to read praise into any missing scolding from years and years of strict education, easily able to cope with Lambert's temper and sharp tongue. 

It took two more days before Eskel and Geralt reappeared, suddenly turning the corner of the keep and sauntering into the courtyard, having slinked back into Kaer Morhen the same way they had gone. They were both barely recognisable, covered in dirt and obviously having been drenched to the bone more than once. They weren't carrying any trophies despite the fact that they were liberally spattered with blood and gore, but as Jaskier stopped to let them approach he could hear Eskel say something he didn't quite understand, eyes sparkling with delight, and watched Geralt smirk in answer.

They didn't need to tell Jaskier where they had been, that while they had taken their intention to take down wargs seriously and been quite successful, they had spent most of the week climbing around the area, walking far beyond Morhen valley into the uninhabited smaller valleys behind the bend of the Gwenllech, following the river up to its source, finding it still frozen. Clambering over ice and thick sheets of snow they had climbed up the glacier sitting at the end of the final valley, at that point in time having abandoned any semblance of actually trying to hunt and simply enjoying themselves and the fact that they could move outside again. 

Eskel recounted that breathtaking climb when they were drifting in the large basin in the bathhouse hours later, having already cleaned their armour and weapons and received the obligatory dressing down from Vesemir, who pointedly informed them of the number of avalanches going down the mountains at this time of the year and glared murder at the carelessness of both of them. It slipped right off them with the ease of many years, and when they had finally managed to make it to the bathhouse and washed a few days worth of dirt off them they were laughing again at their sheer stupid luck. 

And stupid luck it indeed had been, and Jaskier was glad he hadn't known what they had been up to when he listened to Eskel describe how avalanches had indeed gone down around them, how they had barely managed to avoid a few of them, following their senses in alerting them when the white around them started to move and scrambling into safety just in time more than once. To Jaskier the whole expedition sounded a lot more like a nightmare than the fun Eskel described it to be, but then he didn't have a body that could take the cold and the height, that was thriving on the challenge of finding a safe way across an ice fall, of living off nothing but the poor rations they had taken for a week. And if he took all of that into consideration he could imagine why they enjoyed the thrill of danger and the excitement of surviving in a hostile environment, of pushing themselves a little further, seeing how high they could go, one more time climbing a mountain together and seeing if the world would fall away around them. 

He looked at Geralt drifting freely in the basin next to him, completely relaxed, the white tendrils of his hair floating around him, weightless in the water. The sutures on his left side had perfectly healed by now, leaving thick and darkened scars but nothing else. He hummed along to Eskel's story, but otherwise kept his eyes closed in content relaxation. 

"So did you kill any wargs at all or where did that blood come from?"

He nodded, apparently knowing Jaskier was looking at him without opening his eyes.

"Of course. Plenty of them, I haven't seen that many around for years. There was an entire pack in the next valley, a rather large one. What was it, twenty?"

The question was aimed at Eskel, who was stretched out on Jaskier's other side, his head leant against the edge of the basin. Raising a dripping hand out of the water he rubbed his face and then brushed both hands through his thick, dark hair so it was plastered to the back of his head. 

"Twenty-two. I lost count afterwards, but I think we took down at least forty in the first two days. So much gore, it's good we found the lake the glacier water runs into."

Jaskier shuddered at the implication. 

"You didn't take a dip in there, did you?"

Skimming his hands over the surface of the water Eskel shrugged. 

"Had to, we both had warg blood everywhere. You should have seen Geralt's hair, it was completely disgusting."

If Eskel said that it had to have been disgusting indeed, but still the temperature of the water could have barely been above freezing. 

"Glacier water is wonderful, soft and clean. We just had to hack our way through the ice, that took a while."

Geralt sounded like a bath in a lake with almost subzero glacier water was a treat he rarely got to experience and enjoyed even more, and Jaskier could barely withhold the shivering at the idea of forcing himself into a body of water that technically was barely liquid anymore. 

It was Eskel who broke the illusion. 

"Almost an hour until we broke through and had made holes big enough to fit through. It was fucking cold, but, well, the blood had to come off. It was delightful, I hadn't heard Geralt curse that explicitly for nearly a decade."

He reached out with one of his long legs and managed to kick Geralt in the side, and because he was only floating in the water without holding on to anything he promptly went under, reappearing spluttering water with his wet hair sticking to his face. Grinning Eskel ducked away from the splash of water aimed at him, and Jaskier got the entire wave in the face, coughing wildly while at the same time falling into mild hysterics at the image Eskel had just managed to conjure in his mind. 

Two weeks later Vesemir returned from his morning ride and reported that the roads were free, the valley traversable. Winter was almost over, and Jaskier could see it everywhere, not only in the first flecks of green appearing outside but also in the suddenly almost empty pantry, the drained barrels, not much ale left, the cider from Eskel's experiment gone. Even the numbers of chicken had dwindled, most of them having ended up in their soups by now, the remaining ones nervous whenever someone approached. 

Daily excursions to exercise the horses became a more regular thing, and one day Jaskier turned in his saddle when Eskel pointed behind him, watching two dark figures appear on the largest tower, climbing up the slippery roof with astonishing speed, carrying heavy loads on their backs. Both Coën and Geralt spent most of the next days on the roof, seeing how the tiles Geralt had placed in late autumn had held up, fixing whatever needed more attention so it would survive the next year. Jaskier was half-way worried and half-way impressed, and made a point to turn around every day on his rides as long as they were working on the roof, shielding his eyes from the early spring sun, watching them climb around fearlessly. 

The view from up there had to be astonishing, and he wasn't surprised to one day see Coën climb higher, to the very top of the tower, right where Jaskier imagined once a flag had been flown, and precariously balancing there straightened himself, arms spread, a solitary figure high above the valley. It reminded Jaskier of the view from Kaer Seren Coën had described, all the way to the distant sea, the eyes free to travel into what seemed like infinity. Kaer Morhen was different, with the Blue Mountains constricting the view, the horizon not a flat line somewhere far away but a ragged zigzag of peaks that on some days seemed to be within their grasp. 

It didn't surprise Jaskier that Coën was the first one to announce his intention to depart two days later. He said it casually in the library, and while everybody nodded in agreement it was this decision that set a flurry of activity into motion. Suddenly everybody seemed to realise that winter was almost over and that there were still things that needed to be done, and so nests of feverish efforts sprang up all around the fortress. Coën was busy collecting and readying his belongings, fixing a few minor problems before setting out onto the path again, already contemplating his route out of Kaedwen and where to turn then. Jaskier watched him carry a large wooden chest to the storage room, storing a few of his belongings in Kaer Morhen permanently, a clear sign that he fully anticipated to return to what had become a second home to him.

But it wasn't only him who suddenly was busy. Both Eskel and Geralt decided to take their entire armour apart, using the now empty former training space to spread leather pieces everywhere, sitting cross-legged on the ground all day sewing and mending, polishing leather, the scent of saddle soap everywhere. Lambert staked his camp close to the stables and tended to the horses one at a time, checking their shoes, replacing them when necessary with Vesemir watching him and helping wherever necessary. He did a good job and for few coin, and Jaskier was glad he didn't have to worry about Biel's hooves for another few month when Lambert was done with his gelding. 

For Jaskier the sudden time limit meant that he'd have to finish the songs he wanted to leave behind as gift quickly, and while Eskel and Geralt were fiddling away with their armour or retreated to the laboratories in the basement to concoct batches of their vile witcher potions he sat with his lute, putting the last touches to the music, adjusting a word here and another one there, tapping the rhythm on his knee, counting syllables. 

And then they were done, and on Coën's last night in Kaer Morhen Jaskier went up to his room after a splendid dinner and returned to the library with his lute. He found the scenery he was already used to, Vesemir sleeping next to the fire, Geralt and Lambert playing cards, Eskel reading and Coën carefully tending to his silver blade. The blade oil he used smelled of almond, and Jaskier couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the slightly eccentric and expensive choice. 

He settled in his armchair and tuned the lute, and when he was done cast a glance around and cleared his throat. It was Eskel who looked up first, having nodded in agreement when Jaskier had appeared with the instrument, closing the book he was reading without marking the page as it was his habit.

"Music for us, Songbird?"

Jaskier nodded, feeling his heart flutter a little. A new song was always a risk, but now he had nothing but new songs, and no idea how they would react. 

"You said I had to earn my keep, so let me do that tonight once more. Before you depart into all corners of the continent and we might never meet again I have a few songs for you, and it's up to you to tell me when you've heard them whether you want me to spread them around or if they shall remain yours only."

His little speech, even though he had only looked at Eskel, was enough to catch the attention of the others as well. Minutes later they were arranged in a circle around Jaskier, another bottle of White Gull making the round, the goblet with rum by Jaskier's side on the ground. Even Vesemir had opened his eyes, watching Jaskier with curiosity, apparently wondering what was going to happen. 

Checking his tuning once more Jaskier looked around the room once, and then gave himself the tiny little push he needed.

And so he sang. 

He started with the circle of songs for winter in Kaedwen he had written, taking the calm atmosphere of the evening as a cue. In the light of the fireplace he brought the spectacular landscape into the room, pulled snow and ice into the covered space, painted the sky above and the horizon beyond with sound, the ragged and harsh beauty unforgiving and yet dazzling, the cool splendour so close they could almost grasp it. It rose and quivered in the room, and because he knew that they all were familiar with the landscape it was the most intimate experience, his music not only vibrating in the space but also in their bones. 

Jaskier had songs for the mountains and the caves, for the way the water smelt when it came out of the rough stones, for the colours and sounds. And all of them were infused with the feeling of someone coming back from long wanderings, dreaming of home and finding it, forging it for himself within the unforgiving harshness of Kaedwen winter, warmth against all odds. They were songs of patience and determination, of longing and finding, of calm and peace, of knowing that time passed and kingdoms fell while the mountains were infinite, and that in the very end, when everything was said and done, it was their unmovable stones that would remain. 

The music rang out and settled over the room, and when he was done he listened to the final note slowly die away, stilling his hand on the lute and then, very slowly, opened his eyes. Needing a moment to return to reality he looked around the room once and found to his astonishment that it had worked. All of them were sunken in silent reflection, each in his own way. Eskel was smiling into nothingness while Vesemir and Lambert were staring into the fire, their faces expressionless but calm, as if they were slowly sinking into meditation. Coën seemed to be dreaming with his eyes closed, his head tilted to the side, body slack and relaxed. Only Geralt was looking at him, probably having done so the entire time, and when their eyes met nodded, appreciative and ever so slightly sad. 

It was Vesemir who spoke first. 

"You can and should sing those, Bard."

It was the seal of approval Jaskier had wanted, and had been fairly sure he'd get since the Kaedwen songs did not mention Kaer Morhen or Morhen Valley, and even if anyone knew that this was the place he was mentioning it seemed rather unlikely that anybody would be able to locate the exact area they were describing. There were too many valleys like this in the Blue Mountains, and everybody knew Kaer Morhen had fallen decades ago, nothing but ruins left, broken stones and the few remaining witchers. 

Smiling Jaskier nodded at him and found Vesemir's gaze appreciative, a curt nod indicating that he'd enjoyed the music, that he approved of what Jaskier had done. 

"Thank you. You might feel different about the next ones, I'm afraid."

Watching Vesemir raise an eyebrow Jaskier grinned a little, and launched into the next round of songs that quickly managed to pull them all from their dazed dreaming, things quickly getting personal as he distributed his musical gifts. He started off slow, gifting Vesemir a song dedicated to the old wolf watching over his pack, keeping them on track and yet leading them faithfully through the ages, the one who had to bite often to keep order and yet had a soft spot for those he was watching over. The metaphor wasn't exactly new, but it fit well with Vesemir's strict appearance, and he took surprisingly well to being called an old wolf. It helped that when Jaskier described the antics of the wolf pack Eskel snorted and finally broke into laughter recognizing a few of the things Jaskier was describing, while Lambert shook his head and Geralt rolled his eyes. 

The next song was dedicated to Lambert, a raucous song about a prickly witcher who couldn't stand being teased and growled too much and really needed to cheer up but made excellent boar goulash, and this time he managed to crack up Eskel and Coën, while Vesemir had a sly grin on his face and Lambert tried his best to growl as much as possible and threaten Jaskier with murder through narrowed amber eyes. It was Coën who got a song next, picking up a story about a tame griffin he had told Jaskier, ending with the witcher in the song deciding against killing this particular monster and instead hitching a ride, beast and witcher soaring high above Kaer Seren and into the sunset over the sea. Shaking his head Coën murmured a few detailed points of critique mainly based on the fact that one should not hitch a ride with a griffin, under no circumstances, because the chances for survival were very low. But then the image was wonderful, and when Jaskier offered the explanation of artistic liberties everybody readily accepted. 

By then the atmosphere was light-hearted and the White Gull flowing freely, and when Jaskier finally winked at Eskel and launched into the siren song he had them all wrapped around his finger. The first verse described the witcher in question as a handsome bastard, dark-haired and fire-eyed, and by the second verse Coën and Eskel joined the raunchy chorus. Lambert was shaking with laughter at the detailed descriptions of what exactly the lucky witcher meeting the sirens got to do and the awful flirting that preceded the dirty deeds. The chorus included a few fantastic flourishes on the lute, and while half of his brain was focused on playing the complicated patterns properly Jaskier watched Eskel bathe in the glow of for once not being described as a dangerous disfigured creature but as a lover, burning with passion and desire despite what he was, despite what he looked like. It did him well, and Jaskier already knew that he'd have nothing against public performances of this masterpiece, would enjoy being immortalised like this. 

He finished the piece off playing the last flourish and the library erupted into cheers as Eskel, Coën and Lambert clapped, even Vesemir nodding his approval at the lewd lyrics and Geralt grinning, probably for once relieved that he wasn't being pushed into the spotlight of Jaskier's songs.

Eskel downed the content of his goblet and leant back in his armchair. 

"Quite brilliant, Songbird, I'd say it happened just like this. But my flirting is much better than what you describe!"

Shrugging Jaskier reached down to pick up his own goblet of rum and sipped the liquid. 

"I wouldn't be too sure about that. I also only had your perspective and couldn't ask the sirens."

The retort earned Jaskier a rumble of approval from various places around the fire, and Eskel shrugged and tilted his head with a grin. Then he nodded towards Geralt. 

"So anything for him?"

Jaskier nodded and picked up the lute again. But this time it wasn't a full on proper song detailing the glorious fighting of the White Wolf but instead a little tune composed to amuse a larger audience, lovingly called "A lot of everything is always a problem" that hinged on audience participation. In a long litany it detailed various battles against smaller monsters the unnamed witcher had to fight, always bragging he'd done so easily, and then being called out for having to work a little harder when the monsters appeared in packs. The verse was simple, repeating the name of the current monster, calling that one wasn't a problem, two wasn't a problem, three, nah, but a lot of them, well, a lot of them always were. 

Coën and Eskel quickly picked up on the game and cheerfully joined into the chorus, Lambert grinning and nodding along with some glee while Geralt just kept shaking his head, but found it not below him to admit he'd been quoted correctly. It earned Jaskier another round of applause, and just because he was on the topic of Geralt anyway he sang a quick rendition of his most famous song, once more finding that everyone present joined with the exception of Geralt who rolled his eyes and simply emptied his goblet instead.

With rum, White Gull and music flowing freely Coën's final evening passed quickly. Jaskier sang a few more old favourites and more new songs, including one about Kaer Seren he had written only a few days before after Coën had spoken of it again, this time finding no happy end to a story that had essentially concluded with the siege. It was almost the last song of the evening, and when it ended the room was silent and Jaskier noticed that Coën was turning away to wipe a tear from his eye. 

It made Jaskier wonder if he should keep the very last song to himself, but since Coën was crying anyway he decided to simply go for it and plucked an arpeggio melting into slow chords, singing the final song for the night, for their winter. It was the lament of an unnamed witcher mourning the fate of all of his lost brothers, remembering those who had remained out on the path and would never return home again, that had been and now were gone. 

It took Coën's grief for Milos and what Eskel had told him all these month ago about fearing the moment he'd hear of Geralt's death one day, and the memories of all those he had seen in the visions of the past the spectre had shown him and who no longer lived, and turned them into music, building a final monument for those that would not have a grave, whose names would be forgotten, who would return to earth lying where they fell. And despite all of it the witcher in his song went on, knowing the way was long and the swords heavy, and that tomorrow was uncertain for all of them, every day going forward, behind him the dead and before him the path.

This time when he was done there was silence in the room. For a moment he feared looking up, but when he did all he saw were the tears on Coën's cheeks running into his beard, Eskel staring at Geralt while blinking rapidly a few times, Lambert wiping his nose on his wrist. Only Vesemir and Geralt sat unmoving, the former turned away looking into the fire, the latter leaning back with his eyes closed, his hands relaxed in his lap. It was him who spoke first, though, sitting up and opening his eyes, soft and sad in the firelight, nodding at Jaskier. 

"Thank you."

Lambert sniffed again, and then growled, disagreeing with Geralt.

"Fuck you, Bard. You just ruined my entire night."

Smiling a little sadly and gently placing the lute down Jaskier nodded at him, seeing the emotion on his face, the unshed tears. 

"My pleasure."

Eskel cleared his throat, and then picked up his goblet. 

"Let's drink to that, then."

Rising their goblets they all followed his suggestion, and each knocked back the alcohol as if their lives depended on it. Jaskier wrinkled his nose at the harsh burn of the rum, but did not refuse the refill Eskel offered, finally putting the lute away and listening as the conversation unfolded again, everybody frantically trying to gloss over their unbecoming emotional reaction by talking all at once. Leaning back he listened to Lambert question Coën about his travel plans and the route he intended to take, not being surprised when he heard Coën planned to travel well-known roads all the way down to his former home, wanting to see Kaer Seren after many years and then continue towards the coast and see what work could await him there. 

The evening passed with talk and relaxed banter, the sad spell Jaskier had cast finally broken. It was long past midnight when they finally scattered to their rooms, Eskel and Geralt leaving ahead of Jaskier, who suddenly found himself held back by Vesemir. The hand on his shoulder was placed there only very lightly, but Vesemir's face was stern as ever, and Jaskier felt the uneasiness at his presence rise again. Willing his heartbeat to remain steady he smiled, and waited. 

"I enjoyed your songs tonight."

It was unexpected, but Jaskier had learnt to take any compliment, anything at all, and this was probably the highest praise anyone had ever received from Vesemir in the past hundred years. 

"I'm glad."

Looking him up and down once Vesemir nodded, and then motioned with his head towards the corridor behind the door where even Jaskier with his human hearing could pick up on Geralt and Eskel lingering, talking quietly. 

"Well done, Jaskier."

With a curt nod Vesemir turned away and strode out of the door, leaving Jaskier standing in the empty library gaping, having expected everything but not that. Blinking his confusion away he adjusted the strap of his lute around his shoulder, shook his head once to clear it and followed Vesemir. He had another song to deliver tonight, and he wouldn't let anything get to his head now. 

He caught up with Geralt and Eskel outside, but only inclined his head when they looked at him questioning, fully aware that they probably had heard every word anyway without even trying to eavesdrop. Together they marched up the stairs, and after Eskel vanished towards his own room Jaskier simply followed Geralt upwards. When they arrived in his room Jaskier carefully took the lute off his shoulder, motioned towards the bed with his head and settled in the armchair. 

"Make yourself comfortable, I have another song for you."

Hiding a yawn behind his hands Geralt shook his head. 

"I thought the unfavourable quote was already my song."

With a grin Jaskier tuned the lute up once more. 

"Did you really think you'd get away that easily? Lie down, and listen."

Standing in the middle of the room undecided for a moment Geralt watched him. 

"I thought you weren't going to write any love songs."

Clicking his tongue Jaskier wiggled his eyebrows at him, fuelled by the rum and the good reception his songs had gotten so far. 

"This is not a love song."

Then he waited patiently until Geralt had decided where to make himself comfortable, and because he took forever sighed dramatically so Geralt simply sat down on the floor, long legs stretched out towards the fire with his back against the bed, his head slightly tilted back and looking up at Jaskier. For a moment they simply looked at each other, and Jaskier needed to shake his head to clear the sudden slight dizziness from his mind, a recurring problem recently brought on by that particular set of amber eyes. 

Testing the strings once he looked down at his hands, and sang. 

It was a simple song, an easy melody, slow and calm, floating weightlessly. It spoke of a summer night spent under the stars, and with his voice Jaskier painted the sky a deep and dark velvet blue, stars dripping all over the heavenly fabric. He added trees and their whispering leaves, warm grass and blooming flowers on the meadow, the distant murmuring of a little stream. There was a horse grazing nearby, and there was a man lying on the warm earth, dreaming in the night, peacefully and calmly thinking about his lover, resting somewhere far away under the same stars. There was no solution to their solitude, no happy ending where they were reunited, only the reassurance and quiet confidence that they would at some point meet again, somewhere, sometime along the way. 

Halfway through Geralt let his head fall back and closed his eyes, and Jaskier knew it worked, that he saw the stars Jaskier had sung into existence and knew exactly why this wasn't a song for the library or a banquet hall or a tavern. These were his stars, and Jaskier had put them into the sky so Geralt could see them, wherever the path might take him, a summer night all for himself, a place to go to when the world wasn't kind and the nights weren't gentle. 

When Jaskier was done he gently placed a hand on the strings and looked down at Geralt, who still kept his eyes closed for a moment longer. He spoke without opening them or moving.

"Come here."

And Jaskier obliged, naturally, carefully setting the lute down and slipping off the chair onto the ground, settling on top of Geralt. He raised his head and for a moment they just looked at each other. Geralt seemed to be looking for the proper words and couldn't find any, the slight frown on his face betraying that he tried to find something that kept on slipping through his grasp. Jaskier, smiling, had mercy on him. 

"You can just say thank you."

It took a moment, but then Geralt nodded. 

"Thank you."

Jaskier was now grinning, relishing how he'd managed to utterly confuse Geralt with something as simple as a song, after all these songs and all these years. 

"You're welcome. I said it's not a love song, you don't have to stare like that."

But Geralt only hummed a reply, placed both hands around Jaskier and in one smooth movement stood up, easily lifting Jaskier up with him, and gently took him to bed. 

The next morning Coën left Kaer Morhen. He had decided to ride early despite their long night in the library, and they all shared the kitchen table for breakfast. With a little sadness Jaskier watched him drown his kasha in honey for the last time, and then take the little parcel of food Eskel offered him with a grateful nod and a smile. And then he went out to saddle his horse and ready everything, and Jaskier remained in the kitchen helping to clean the dishes until it was time to wave him off. 

They flocked to the inner courtyard and watched Coën lead his horse by the reins. His mare was saddled like every witcher horse Jaskier had ever seen, bags cleverly distributed, with the addition of a new saddle pad made out of a warg skin that Jaskier knew Lambert had gifted him. Coën carried both his swords on his back, his elegantly carved silver blade a little longer than the shorter steel sword he used, the decorated hilts sitting above his right shoulder. He was dressed for a long journey, sturdy leather breeches and a thick tunic, his armour on top and a heavy cloak over it. On his chest gleamed the griffin head, and Jaskier looked closely but couldn't see the wolf head sitting underneath his clothing, the silver chain obscured by the scarf wound around his neck. But he looked good, much better than he had when he had arrived in autumn, well-fed and relaxed, his hair and beard well cared for and neatly trimmed. 

Smiling he looked at his hosts, one after the other. 

"Thank you for your hospitality, Kaer Morhen was truly home for me this winter. Consider me indebted to all of you."

Lambert grinned and came forward first, not bothering with platitudes. 

"Sure, you'll pay for it one day. Have a good year, Coën." 

They embraced, firmly this time, and Jaskier remembered Coën's arrival, the slight hesitation, the fact that nobody had stood up to embrace him. Now he made the rounds, from one to the other, all offering good wishes for the journey and the path, embracing him as one does a departing friend, Eskel slapping his shoulder hard before Coën turned to Geralt.

"Don't find yourself a griffin to fly away on."

Geralt nodded at Jaskier and Coën grinned and agreed. 

"I won't. But I will remember your words, the things you told me that first night. I've spent many a winter night thinking about them, and it seems to me that you are right. Thank you for that."

For a moment Geralt looked just a little embarrassed and then slightly awkwardly reached out to pat Coën's shoulders before he was pulled into an embrace he couldn't evade. Grinning Jaskier suffered the same fate, enjoying that Coën allowed him just as close as the others, wishing him all the very best on the path, which, if Jaskier was honest, mostly meant survival.

Finally Vesemir gave him a last once over, and then nodded towards the horse. 

"Good luck, witcher. Travel well."

He did not offer an embrace and nobody including Coën seemed to have expected one. Tilting his head in thanks Coën looked at them once more before elegantly vaulting into the saddle. He cast a final glance around Kaer Morhen and then nodded, rising his hand at the same time as he picked up the reins with the other, nudging his horse forward. There was the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, and then he was gone. 

Immediately the remaining inhabitants of Kaer Morhen scattered. Lambert and Vesemir walked away together already deep in conversation, and when Jaskier turned around from watching the empty gate Coën had just disappeared through he just so caught Geralt raising five fingers and tilting his head, looking at Eskel, who only nodded and turned around to walk over to the stables. 

Jaskier didn't need to ask to know what Geralt had meant, but they had the decency to ask him later in the kitchen over a light lunch, and he agreed to ride with them in five days time. 

From then on the days seemed to rush past. There was suddenly so much to do, so many things Jaskier had to get in order himself. And it was of course now that he decided to take all of Biel's tack apart, to adjust a few things on the bridle he had been fussing around with all of last year, to wash his clothes and arrange everything neatly. And he wasn't only responsible for setting his own things into order, being roped into work at the fortress as well and participating willingly. He helped Lambert and Geralt give the bathhouse a deep cleaning, spent hours in the pantry getting the books in order with Eskel and write a detailed inventory, scrubbed a few floors and cleaned the stables out. 

He didn't see much of either Geralt or Eskel unless they were working together or, in Geralt's case, falling into bed at night. Both had many duties and responsibilities around Kaer Morhen, constantly doing some task or the other, rarely ever sitting still. But for them the end of winter not only meant that they had to set their own things in order and prepare for a year on the path while making sure Kaer Morhen was in shape to stand mostly empty for the next month and not suddenly fall to dust, but also that they would need to say goodbye to everyone they had spent the past month with, that they wouldn't see for a very long time now. And Jaskier noticed how they were slowly preparing to do that, suddenly making room to spent time together and have conversations in private that during the winter had just randomly happened without any need to be specifically scheduled. 

Now Vesemir and Geralt vanished from the fortress for an entire day, and Jaskier watched them walk through the main gate in the morning after breakfast, not dressed for a lengthy excursion but still armed, steel on Vesemir and silver on Geralt, already wrapped into a quiet conversation. Eskel and Lambert used the same day for a lazy sparring session followed by what seemed like an endless kitchen conversation, Jaskier retreating to his room and own tasks with some food to give them privacy. 

He caught more small moments like this over the days, Vesemir and Eskel discussing something standing in the inner courtyard in front of the stables for hours, apparently long having forgotten why they were actually there but too focused on their conversation to move somewhere else, Lambert and Geralt sitting on one of the lower walls next to the drill grounds on a sunny morning, Lambert balancing his steel sword on his index finger and apparently considering the perfect proportion of the blade while speaking, his face earnest, Geralt listening intently. One afternoon Jaskier was looking for something he had forgotten in Geralt's room and, after knocking and receiving no reply thinking Geralt was somewhere outside, marched straight into Eskel and Geralt meditating together. 

Jaskier had seen them do it before but in less than calm circumstances, Geralt unbeknownst to everyone being tortured by the spectre, incapable of finding peace in meditation, his focus permanently slipping through his grasp. But now all of this was in the past and Jaskier stumbled into both of them kneeling on the ground opposite each other, knees almost touching but not quite, sitting straight, hands relaxed on their thighs. Their eyes were closed, and they were obviously sunken into deeper layers of meditation, perfectly relaxed and quiet, comfortably sharing the moment. Hoping that he hadn't disturbed them Jaskier was already retreating when he noticed them breathe at the exact same moment, shoulders moving barely perceptibly. Closing the door behind himself gently he wondered whether that was a chance occurrence or something that happened during meditation if they just spent enough time close to each other, if maybe even their heartbeats would find a matching cadence. It was a question he kept for a later day, but one he would make sure to ask at some point. 

Right now he was busy enough setting his own things in order, folding clothing, finally packing his bags. Sorting through the warm clothing first Vesemir and then Eskel had given him Jaskier found it difficult to decide what to take and what to leave behind at Kaer Morhen, and only found a way out of the dilemma when he confessed it to Geralt and promptly found him delivering a chest to Jaskier's door similar to the one he knew all the witchers had on their shelves to store their personal belongings. It made Jaskier proud to have one, too, and he more easily decided what to leave behind knowing he could reclaim these things should he ever come back, while at the same time realising that the chest was as good as a key to Kaer Morhen, a standing invitation.

He packed it neatly, deciding to take only a pair of useful leather breeches, the recently mended cerulean tunic and the dark blue scarf plus a warm cloak he had come to love, and fitting everything else into the chest he then carried it across the fortress into the storage room himself, placing it on the shelf next to Coën's, watching Geralt and Eskel fit theirs next to his not much later.

And then the days were suddenly up and it was his last night. Eskel had outdone himself in the kitchen, using up whatever needed to go to create a wonderful feast, Lambert rolling his eyes all the way through dinner with every more creative dish that came to the table but tucking in nevertheless. Finally they sat in the library, simply talking, even Jaskier having no desire for music that night. Their five armchairs were arranged around the fire like they had been the first night, and just like then Jaskier watched Vesemir take the chair closest to the fire, Lambert distributing goblets, Eskel passing the bottle of White Gull around, nudging the final remaining drops of rum out of the barrel into Jaskier's goblet. 

Sniffing the content of his goblet Vesemir looked up at Jaskier, his glance scrutinising. 

"So this is your last night in Kaer Morhen, Bard. Tell me, did you find it to be like you expected it?"

Balancing his own goblet on the armrest of the chair Jaskier stretched his legs and pondered his answer, out of the corner of his eyes watching Eskel fill Geralt's goblet and handing it over, Lambert sitting down and crossing his legs and arms. 

"No."

Tilting his head slightly Jaskier watched Vesemir slowly raise an eyebrow. 

"What was different?"

He seemed genuinely interested, and Jaskier obliged him willingly. 

"You were, mostly. I thought I knew a few things about witchers, and it turned out that you were right and I knew barely anything. It was an honour to change that. Thank you for giving me the opportunity."

He remembered Vesemir on the first night, sceptical if Jaskier knew what he was getting himself into and of course being absolutely right. With his goblet Jaskier toasted him, allowing himself a smile. 

"And also for saving my life down in that basement, much appreciated."

Looking around he repeated the motion with his goblet towards all of them, watching Geralt snort and Eskel grin while Lambert rolled his eyes just a little, still offended at having been kept out of the fight and informed only afterwards. It was Eskel who tilted his head towards Jaskier, answering the toast by raising his own goblet.

"Well, we couldn't just let the spectre eat our guest, Songbird. We do have some sort of professional integrity, after all."

Lambert growled just a little, frowning. 

"I'm not sure if anyone should talk about professional integrity here given the bard had to finish the thing off with a witcher sword himself. Didn't need much saving, I think."

Eskel looked like he wanted to smack Lambert over the head, but Geralt rolled his eyes. 

"Of course he doesn't, he can look after himself."

Amused Jaskier shrugged, not willing to intervene, watching Lambert stretch his legs with all the treacherous languid elegance of a cat that could pounce every second. 

"Really, so he isn't here because of your massive saviour complex?"

This time Eskel was faster, and because he sat close to Lambert kicked him in the shin, causing him to nearly drop his goblet while Geralt only growled in return. But Vesemir cleared his throat before things could escalate further. 

"Quiet and calm on the last evening, is that too much to ask?"

Lambert grinned and lounged back in his armchair, knowing fully well that he was absolutely right and that everybody in the room, including Jaskier, were very well aware of the fact that Geralt was basically a walking saviour complex, completely incapable of dealing with his own problems but always willing to run head on into danger to save someone else, no matter the personal cost. 

"Someone has to say the truth sometimes here."

With a groan Geralt knocked back the entire content of his goblet before holding it out for Eskel to fill up again. 

"At least I am aware of my personal shortcomings."

Eskel laughed, passing the bottle on to Vesemir. 

"And if one day you should start to fall into delusions of grandeur you could just ask Lambert to ride with you. He'd adore informing you of all your problems and errors lovingly, in plain words, daily."

Lambert glared a little at Eskel, but Geralt nodded with some appreciation at the picture Eskel had painted of Lambert's character while Jaskier immediately had a wonderful song on his mind.

"A little like a reverse panegyrist, someone who slanders you for coin. Oh, Lambert, that'd be an excellent second career choice for you. I know plenty of very rich men who enjoy being told their place in clear terms, and you're even wearing the appropriate amount of leather already." 

It was a little dangerous to tease Lambert on like this, but Jaskier felt fairly comfortable, and watching Eskel erupt into howling laughter was worth the risk. Geralt nearly dropped his goblet at the image, and even Vesemir snorted a little while Lambert hissed at him with feeling, succumbing to the general outbreak of hysterics only when Eskel slapped him on the shoulder hard to keep himself from keeling over with laughter. 

When they had all calmed down it was Eskel who lifted his goblet, tears of laughter in his eyes, barely able to breathe properly again. 

"Songbird, you're a brave man indeed, but then we've known that all along. Cheers to you and your utter fearlessness."

Raising his own goblet Jaskier nodded and grinned, watching Geralt shake his head with amusement in his eyes. Vesemir looked from one to the other, tilting his head a little. 

"You've indeed surprised me this winter, human."

Turning towards him Jaskier watched him, his unusually relaxed face, dark amber eyes warm in the flickering light of the fire. 

"Is that good?"

Vesemir nodded, and raised his goblet. But he wasn't looking at Jaskier, for a moment letting his eyes wander around the room, obviously taking inventory of what he was seeing. There was the echo of the laughter still in the air, traces of the fit of hilarity on Eskel's face, Lambert still stretched out comfortably in his chair and only pretending to be sulking, Geralt calmly sitting with mirth in his eyes and a small smile on his lips. Jaskier followed Vesemir's gaze and understood exactly what the old wolf was seeing, why he approved. He wasn't surprised when Vesemir didn't answer but simply turned to him again, nodded, and offered his goblet so they could clink them together and drink to the end of the winter and the last night in Kaer Morhen. 

The next morning Geralt kicked Jaskier out of bed early, and with some fussing and growling Jaskier set himself into motion. He had arranged everything before breakfast, and then found the kitchen already heated. For the last time he ate his kasha sitting next to Eskel, emptying the last cherries into his bowl and savouring the warm burn of the rum they were preserved in, suddenly wistful at his impending departure. 

But Eskel and Geralt were all matter-of-fact, already dressed to ride albeit lacking the final layers of their armour. After breakfast Jaskier went up to his room to sort through the last things and finally brought his entire belongings down to the stables, the lute securely on his back. There Biel was awaiting him, nervous and excited, having long realised they were departing. Roach was already standing outside next to Eskel's mare, both kitted out for the ride, bags and saddle arranged in the usual pattern, having warg skins as saddle pads thanks to Lambert's generosity. And he hadn't forgotten Jaskier, wordlessly having put another one of the slightly gruesome but very useful saddle pads on top of Biel's saddle in the tack room, leaving Jaskier smiling at his not-so-secret gift for a moment while he knew he'd be dead if he said as much as a word. Taking his time Jaskier prepared Biel properly, brushed him down, made sure the saddle and bridle were comfortable for him and distributed his bags. 

He was just done when Geralt and Eskel appeared, now dressed as they would be every day on the path in their very particular way of wearing armour, swords on their backs. Eskel was humming as he put the finishing touches to his set-up, adding a final bag that Jaskier knew without asking contained food, patted the nose of his mare and checking the girth of the saddle. 

And then it was time to depart. Geralt clicked his tongue at Roach and she followed him obediently, away from the stables, towards the spot where they had waved off Coën days ago and now Vesemir and Lambert were awaiting them. They left the horses standing next to each other and all five stood together one last time, Vesemir giving both Geralt and Eskel a scrutinising once-over that could only come from years of training adepts, unable to shake off the habit of checking their armour and weapons even after all these years. 

It was Lambert they bid farewell first, Eskel pulling him into an embrace that would have crushed the bones of a human, holding on tight, slapping his shoulder so hard even Lambert almost bend over. 

"Now, don't do anything stupid this year on the path, and try not to piss off any important people. Maybe consider that career switch our songbird proposed, I think it's quite a good idea." 

Lambert growled something, but he pulled Eskel into a second embrace easily, and Jaskier watched them smile fondly at each other when they finally let go. 

"Fuck off, I'm good at doing my job. But you better not let anything out there eat you this year, Eskel." 

The curse came as much from the heart as the good wishes, and Eskel laughed and nodded when he stepped back. Geralt only shook his head listening to both of them, turning to Lambert. 

"Did Coën give you the cat medallion?"

Lambert nodded. 

"Yes. I don't know when I'll see him, but maybe it will work out. You still want to keep yours?"

Tilting his head Geralt sighed. 

"For the moment. Maybe one day I will give it to you, or him, if I meet him here in winter."

The implication was manifold, and to Jaskier's amusement Lambert suddenly looked embarrassed. He shook it off and growled, reaching out and embracing Geralt with the same strength as he had Eskel, holding on for just a short moment. But when he let go Jaskier caught him looking at Geralt in honest and unveiled admiration, no trace of his usual prickly annoyance left. It was gone as soon as it had come, his face back to its neutral expression of slight disdain, but it had been there and Jaskier knew Geralt had seen it as well, though he probably hadn't needed any reminder of how Lambert actually felt. 

Stepping back he placed a hand on Lambert's shoulder for a moment. 

"Have a good year, Lambert."

Lambert nodded, and then Vesemir stepped forward, having watched the exchange.

"I don't need to remind you of your obligations on the path, you both know how to conduct yourselves."

Both Eskel and Geralt nodded, and Jaskier realised he was watching a ritual that had already played out many times over the decades, before and after the siege. 

"So remember what Kaer Morhen taught you, and you shall fare well. The path is long and it can be difficult, but it will also guide you home again when the year is over, if you just let it. Trust the path and yourself."

Eskel smiled, slightly nostalgic, probably remembering all the years he had already heard this phrase, the many times Vesemir had already sent him off into the world with maybe these exact same words. He stepped forward first and Vesemir placed a hand on his shoulder for a moment before turning and repeating the same gesture with Geralt. It was a valediction and a blessing, and Jaskier, who had never received any sort of blessing in his entire life that he had considered worth anything, suddenly felt sad that he had simply taken his things and run off whenever he had decided to leave and never gotten a proper farewell from anyone, not like this in all the years. 

Then Vesemir turned to him and suddenly held a very small book in his hands he must have kept in the pockets of his leather jacket before. 

"Here, Bard, take this as a small parting gift. It has been in Kaer Morhen for a very long time, but I think you might find it interesting. You were welcome here this winter, and you shall be welcome again should you desire to return. May the road be kind to you and your journey safe."

Feeling warmth spread through his stomach Jaskier took the book. It was very old but looked like it had been well-cared for, the binding elegantly tooled, of obvious elven origin. 

"Thank you, Vesemir. I shall treasure your gift and the memories of this winter. I hope this year will be good for you and all of your wolves, and that we will meet again."

Tilting his head Vesemir agreed and accepted the thanks, and Jaskier turned to his horse and safely placed the book together with his other papers into his best and almost waterproof saddle bag. Then he patted Biel once and climbed into the saddle, watching Eskel and Geralt do the same, just a little more elegantly. Picking up the reins he nodded at Vesemir and Lambert one last time, and Vesemir nodded back. 

"Goodbye, bard."

Then he turned slightly, looking at Eskel and Geralt, high on their horses.

"Good luck, witchers. Travel well."

Geralt nodded and raised a hand, just like Coën had done, picking up the reins with the other. Roach snorted once and turned, and leading the way through the opened gate fell into her easy travelling gait. 

Following Jaskier cast one last glance at the keep, seeing not the broken stones and destroyed buildings he had noticed when he arrived but remembering the warmth behind the windows that had been repaired, now knowing which of them belonged to the kitchen and where the library was, that the stables were warm and dry and the little passageways leading around the keep, where the water would run out of the stones and how the wood for the bathhouse had to be chopped. The sun was already high up in the sky and under the friendly light Kaer Morhen looked like a home, like a place Jaskier could return to if he just needed to, just like it had been for decades and decades for wolf witchers on the path, a comforting promise on a cold night, a dry thought for the pouring rain. 

Then they were out of the fortress and onto the trail, first choosing the same way Jaskier had taken for weeks now on his excursions but then taking the turn to the left, crossing the Gwenllech and finally climbing upwards. 

When they reached the corner of the trail where it took a sharp turn Jaskier turned in his saddle, willing Biel to stop for a moment, and Eskel and Geralt did the same. For a moment all three of them halted their horses, turning around at the last chance to see Kaer Morhen before the trail would lead them away for good. In silence they looked at the fortress, the dark shape huddled against the flank of the mountain, her ruins looking desolated as ever. But the roof of the largest tower was now perfectly intact and properly tiled, and even though there was no flag Jaskier simply added it in his thoughts, a fluttering banner with the wolf head just like the one Eskel and Geralt wore on their chest. 

Turning back he saw them looking at the fortress, and then at each other. 

"That was an interesting winter."

Eskel addressed Geralt, but he winked at Jaskier, sounding slightly melancholic. Geralt hummed a reply, and nudged Roach forward. 

"Indeed, it was."

And with that and a look over his shoulder at Jaskier he led the way. They turned the corner, riding onwards, leaving Kaer Morhen behind them as Morhen valley disappeared from view.

They climbed steadily higher from there, passing the place where Geralt had fought the wargs what now seemed a long time ago. Conversation flowed steadily between them, anecdotes from the past winter and plans for the new year, Eskel telling stories about the area they were passing through and Jaskier joining in. It was completely different than it had been when they had taken the same way into the other direction, and Jaskier savoured the feeling of friendship, the warmth of an easy connection. Briefly he remembered being threatened by Eskel when they had to slide down from the horses and walk them around the hidden entrance to the trail and under the fallen trees, now in the confident knowledge that he could sing the Kaedwen songs and the siren song, even though Vesemir and Lambert had both requested to keep their songs for themselves and Coën had agreed with them. 

The forest closed around them, fresh green sprouting everywhere after the winter, the trees immediately casting cold shadows. Jaskier was thankful for his thick cloak and the scarf he had taken, still wearing the leather breeches and cerulean tunic, planning to only change into his own finery as soon as he'd arrive in a village or town again, enjoying the feeling of dressing like a witcher for just a moment longer. 

They rode all day, and when the sun went down in the afternoon, still not very late this early in spring, reached the cave they had settled in on their way up to the fortress just in time. This time Jaskier wasn't cold and nervous about any wargs, with both Eskel and Geralt fully armed and relaxed, and his own dagger by his side. Confidently he helped them set up camp and make a fire, and then they sat and talked some more over the food Eskel had brought for them from Kaer Morhen. It was a calm and cosy evening, and Jaskier took out the lute after dinner and played the Kaedwen songs again as well as the siren song Eskel enjoyed so much, finding all of them still sounding good in the different setting of the forest, knowing then that they would work everywhere. 

He finally retired after a long evening, stretching out on his bedroll comfortably, this time warmed by the food and the proper cloak he wrapped himself into. Just like last time neither Geralt nor Eskel had bothered with their bedrolls, and Jaskier knew they wanted to sit by the fire and talk the night away. Tomorrow they would part ways, and Jaskier knew what that meant. The path was long and dangerous, and if the worst happened this would be their last night by the fire, their last conversation. It was nothing Jaskier wanted to think about and yet knew they did and had to, and he wanted to give them the privacy to properly say goodbye before they would actually say goodbye, and since he was tired he closed his eyes, their familiar voices in the background, the easy and soft flow of their conversation guiding him into deep sleep. 

Very early the next morning he awoke fresh and relaxed, finding Eskel having already rekindled the fire and Geralt taken care of the horses. They had breakfast in amicable silence and then rode on after cleaning the cave, knowing that Lambert would pass through in a few days time as well and use it just like they had. 

And then suddenly the forest became less dense and the trail broad, and before it was lunchtime they were out of the woods and saw the village. It looked just like Jaskier remembered it, tiny and dirty, sitting on the banks of the Gwenllech that here slowly transformed into a proper river. Riding past the tavern Jaskier remembered his sad room, the cold nights and the hopelessness, how much he had worried and how he had imagined Kaer Morhen to be. On his way out he had planned on singing on his return trip for the villagers and brag about his winter with the witchers, and now that he did pass through and had indeed spent that winter nothing was further from his mind. 

Instead he watched the villagers from his horse and saw them stare back in return. They glared and sneered, at Eskel and Geralt just like they did at him, doing double takes when they realised he was human, that the thing on his back was a lute and not a sword. Both Eskel and Geralt had ceased any conversation when they had reached the village, and Jaskier noticed the hint of tension about them, the vigilance well-hidden but there. 

They only relaxed when they left the village behind them and continued onwards on the main road. There was almost no traffic on the road this early in the year, even though it was good travelling weather, and Jaskier took the opportunity. Letting go of Biel's reins in the knowledge that he'd go nowhere without Jaskier telling him to he reached around his back and with some fiddling finally had the lute in his arms. 

"Hey, Eskel!"

He strummed the strings once and tuned them quickly, watching Biel's ears flick at the familiar sounds. Eskel, riding ahead this time, turned in his saddle and looked at Jaskier, amusement in his face. Behind him Jaskier heard Geralt groan theatrically, but then he closed up to Jaskier, riding beside him on the broad and empty road. 

"I've got a final song for you before we part soon."

Eskel slowed his horse so they were all next to each other, looking at Jaskier with curiousity. And then Jaskier strummed the lute once and started to belt out the song about the little witcher, that annoying tune he hadn't been able to get out of his head for weeks. It was a catchy beast of a song, dealing with a tiny, tiny witcher who badly wanted to fight big monsters, even though he was much smaller than his brothers. The rousing chorus - "his sword is the size of a toothpick and in battle he's riding a hare!" - was designed so it could be sung by the entire audience, and the last verse detailed how the little witcher managed to take down a manticore by simply pricking it over and over again until the monster, too confused about the small attacker it couldn't grasp with its talons, died of bloodloss and the little witcher stood victorious. 

It was a terribly mean song, full of dirty puns and innuendo, and while Jaskier had made sure to describe the little witcher as brown-haired so nobody could get any ideas Eskel clearly got the message. He tried to join the chorus a few times, but couldn't stop himself from hysterical laughter, after the final verse was done having to use his horse's neck for support so he wouldn't simply fall from the saddle. He was fighting for breath when Jaskier strummed his lute for the last time and turned to look at Geralt, whom Jaskier had heard snort a few times as well, but now did his best to look tortured. 

"Really, must you do that."

Grinning Jaskier patted Biel's neck, praising him for his patience. Roach flicked her ears and shook her head a little as if to comment on the situation, and Geralt clicked his tongue at her. 

"He absolutely must. Songbird, you've outdone yourself. If that won't be a massive success I don't know." 

Eskel needed to wipe his face with his gloved hands, and then bent forward to pick up the reins he had dropped over his fit of hysteria. Grinning Jaskier strummed a chord and then another. 

"I knew you'd love it. And it goes well with the siren song, don't you think?"

And without further ado he launched into the siren song once more, and Eskel joined him while Geralt looked at both of them with thinly veiled fondness while pretending to be absolutely annoyed about their ridiculous behaviour. 

Jaskier replaced the lute on his back afterwards, genuinely satisfied with the results of his musical assault. Nudging Biel onwards he cast a glance at the blue sky above and sighed contently. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Geralt shake his head and let Roach fall back a little so they stopped taking up the entire road, for a moment turning around to look back, twisting his body in the saddle and giving Jaskier a good view of his two swords neatly sitting there. It reminded him of something he had almost forgotten to ask, and he grasped the opportunity. 

"So, who won the secret witcher league this winter?"

Geralt turned around again looking surprised. 

"How did you even know about that?"

Jaskier shrugged and pointed at Eskel, who promptly turned in his saddle and looked absurdly smug. 

"I won, of course. The spectre did it for me this year, a multidimensional higher being is hard to beat."

Nodding his approval Jaskier wondered if he should enquire whether he had gotten any points for what he thought had been excellent sword work, but Geralt was faster. 

"Don't brag, you weren't quite doing that on your own."

Laughing Eskel shook his head and defended his victory. 

"Silently almost bleeding to death doesn't count, we had that discussion. And the songbird isn't a witcher, so he doesn't get points either. No, this time victory was mine, I won't have anyone take that from me. You can win again next year, I don't care."

Indulging his curiosity Jaskier leant forward a little. 

"So what's the prize?"

Eskel nudged his mare a little so she wouldn't stray off the road towards the tasty looking greenery on the side. 

"Honour, of course."

That sounded like a good thing to win, though Jaskier had his doubts. 

"I always thought witchers don't have any honour."

He turned back in his saddle and looked at Geralt, who found himself quoted correctly and nodded. 

"That's exactly the point."

Having to give in to that logic Jaskier focused on Biel and the path again. 

They rode on, finally in the late afternoon reaching the point where the road forked, one leading to the west, crossing out of Kaedwen and towards Kovir, where the Dragon Mountains sat, and the other larger one towards Ard Carraigh and finally merging with the main trade route towards Redania. Eskel wanted to spend a few weeks trailing the Dragon Mountains whereas Jaskier had to return to Oxenfurt to be there in time for his summer lectures, and Geralt had agreed to ride with him until Ban Glean where he wanted to turn south. 

So it was there they had to say their goodbyes, all three of them dismounting. Jaskier dropped Biel's reins without a second thought, marched up to Eskel and easily returned the firm embrace. He felt a strong pang of sadness and allowed it to project, having no qualms about letting Eskel know how he felt, that he'd miss him. 

"It was a pleasure having you with us this winter, Songbird. You held your own well, and your music brought me a lot of joy. Thank you." 

Jaskier smiled broadly, seeing the nearly perfectly veiled sadness in Eskel's amber eyes. 

"Give me some more time and I'll write you a few more songs, you sure deserve them. Have a good year, Eskel. I hope to see you again soon." 

And then he leant forward and kissed Eskel on the cheek, carefully choosing the side of his face that wasn't disfigured, just a friendly little peck for good measure. He immediately knew it had been a good idea when he heard Eskel's delighted laugh and felt an arm slung around his shoulder pulling him close once more. 

"Always knew witcher was your type. And take a last piece of advice from this witcher, Bard - never ride without your dagger. Promise me!"

Laughing Jaskier promised him, knowing his dagger to be securely tucked into his leather belt, fondly remembering the incredibly sneaky manoeuvres Lambert had shown him and that he hoped he'd never need and absolutely knew he would. 

Then Eskel turned to Geralt, who had watched the little farewell ceremony with an amused shake of his head, but obviously wasn't begrudging Eskel the affection Jaskier bestowed on him. 

"Now, witcher, let me bid you farewell."

Suddenly there was sadness in Eskel's voice, and Geralt nodded and stepped closer, not flinching away from the embrace Eskel caught him in. They held onto each other for a moment before pulling back just a little, and Eskel placed both hands on Geralt's shoulders. Leaning forward they gently touched their foreheads together, Geralt's hands on Eskel's arms. For just a very short moment they remained like this, eyes closed, and Jaskier again felt the sadness, knowing that both were bowing to the inevitable, living with the knowledge that the next time someone would mention the other's name it could be to report his death. 

But it was just a moment before Geralt pulled back, straightened himself so that Eskel's hands slipped off his shoulders. But he didn't remove his hands from Eskel yet, just looking at him. Eskel needed a moment to clear his throat before he could speak. 

"Stay alive, wolf."

Geralt nodded, for a moment tightening his grasp. 

"I will see you again, brother."

Jaskier smiled at the term of endearment he hadn't heard Geralt use before, and from the way Eskel stared he knew that he had probably not heard it in a very long time as well. They stood and stared at each other, and then Geralt raised an eyebrow and nodded towards Eskel's horse. 

"And now what, witcher? Don't you have a job to do? Get on the road, it's a long way until the next village on this trail."

Snorting at his tone of voice that was basically a good impression of Vesemir Eskel shook his head and then stepped back as Geralt let go of him. One last look and Eskel was on his horse again, picking up the reins and nudging it onto the road towards the west. 

"See who's talking here. If you two don't get moving you'll never arrive in Ard Carraigh, or anywhere close to it. Travel well, Geralt, and in case you meet a manticore remember the battle advice Jaskier gave you."

He was already turned away from them, but Jaskier laughed and broke into the chorus of the little witcher song. Eskel picked it up and belted it at the top of his lungs until he was around the corner, and then he laughed until Jaskier could no longer hear him, thinking it fitting that his laughter was the last thing he heard of Eskel of Kaer Morhen, probably for a very long time if maybe not forever.

His departure left Geralt and Jaskier standing on the path, just the two of them again like it had been all these years, and they returned to their horses, Jaskier nudging Biel forward when he was back in the saddle. But he saw Geralt look into the direction Eskel had vanished in before finally moving forwards himself, and he knew from the way Geralt tilted his head that he could still hear Eskel, probably his laugh and maybe even his heartbeat, and Jaskier could even pinpoint the moment when Eskel was finally out of reach in the way Geralt suddenly stopped listening into the distance and fully focused on the road in front of them. 

And because he did it with a small and almost hidden sigh Jaskier decided to distract him a little. Without bothering to unpack his lute he started to sing every song he knew that celebrated spring and a new year, the fresh green and all the opportunities it brought, and while doing so he saw Geralt's frown slowly melt away. Stopping his fresh melodic assault for a moment he brought Biel in close to Roach, and because nobody was on the road and those opportunities would be rare now he leant over and twisting in the saddle managed to kiss Geralt, just like that, out in the open, in the middle of a Kaedwen road. 

Geralt seemed taken aback at first but then kissed him back, his gloved hand on the back of Jaskier's head. 

"So you're giving me battle advice now?"

Needing to reach out and stable himself against Roach's neck lest he'd fall off his own horse Jaskier grinned, pulling back just a little, looking at Geralt from up this close, all raised eyebrow and amber eyes. 

"Of course. I've done some in depth-research this winter into various topics, so I'm now an expert on a few, battle tactics among them."

Pulling himself up and sitting back in his own saddle Jaskier adjusted his cloak and then nudged Biel forward. 

"What in depth-research?"

Geralt sounded genuinely confused, and picking up the reins again urged Roach to close up. Jaskier beamed at him brightly, but kept his voice as matter-of-fact as possible. 

"The one I told you I'd conduct, back in autumn, in that terrible tavern in the horrible village. Witchers and their family relations, for example, I learnt a lot about those."

He watched Geralt frown, suddenly all detached and cool, the way he had been all those years, the way Jaskier knew he still was on the path when he was alone. 

"I don't know what you're talking about. Witchers don't know emotions and have no family, it's common knowledge. I don't know where you get your information from, but it's clearly false. You should be more careful about your sources."

He sounded proud and cold, back very straight, the perfect picture of what humans imagined a witcher to be, his silver white hair tied back neatly, inhuman eyes bright in the daylight, the swords sitting on his back like a dark warning. But Jaskier only laughed and thought of Eskel steadily moving west, of Lambert who was probably preparing his departure from Kaer Morhen this very minute, of Vesemir keeping watch over the fortress and his wolves whenever he could, and even of Coën, wherever he now was, with the second medallion sitting under his tunic against his skin. He thought of the nights in the library and the afternoons drifting in the bathhouse, the care he had seen the witchers bestow on him and each other, the food Eskel had made, the conversations and banter. He thought of the fires and the warmth, the way they had repaired Kaer Morhen against all odds, carving a home out for themselves, refusing to fade away just yet, moving forwards stoically when there was no way back into the past anyway. 

"Bollocks!"

And that was all he said to that particular topic. Geralt only shook his head and maybe smiled a little while guiding Roach onwards, listening to Jaskier tip his head back and continue to sing, his music rising to the pale blue Kaedwen sky high above them, his voice light like a soaring bird and just as free in its delightful flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And the branches of light sing in the hills / slowly we return to earth." are the final lines from the poem "Another descent" by american poet Wendell Berry. I could have used the entire poem for this story, it would have fitted wonderfull - it starts with the lines "Through the weeks of deep snow / we walked above the ground". 
> 
> So this is it. Around three month and 300 pages later we have reached the end of this journey, and it's time to part. 
> 
> But maybe not yet. I have to say thanks first, because without your enthusiastic reception this story wouldn't have turned out the way it did. Thank you for your comments, for your incoherent wailing and emojis, for the hearts and kudo showers, for the literary analysis and incredibly clever sleuthing. I enjoyed your music recommendations and ideas, and everything you shared with me.
> 
> It was a pleasure to take you along with me into this fantastic world, and it was utterly delightful to watch you enjoy it as much as I did. You had wonderful words for how much you liked this story, and it makes me incredibly happy that you took to it with such enjoyment, that you came along for the ride and thought it was an adventure worth following along. I've built proper mountains out of words for this, and you climbed them all eagerly, and alone for that you all deserve a mighty thanks. It took commitment to get this far, to wait patiently for the chapters and then actually read all these damn bloody words. I'm in awe you wanted it. Thank you. 
> 
> I'm even more in awe you even took up the baton and turned this into fanart and, on one occasion, even allowed my characters to slip into your own writing. There's beautiful fanart by Bellefant (linked below), and on Tumblr by to-magic. Milos came to life for a short moment in ruffboi's story "Love's Worth Running To" before he got killed again (poor guy). Edit: I just learnt from ruffboi in the comments that apprently he showed up again in "Raised By Wolves and Voices", and hasn't died (yet?). I'm a little bit anxious for his survivial there, but at least he's currently alive! 
> 
> There's an incredible long project running at the moment by Saeculorum (or "Guest" in the comments) which will end with a fully illustrated version of this fic. I've seen her work as it progresses since she's kindly shared it with me and can say that it's incredible. Stay tuned for that, it'll blow your mind as it did mine. As far as I know she plans to upload it to AO3, so it will be linked with this story eventually.
> 
> In case you feel inspired to create anything based on this, never mind if it's a picture or a piece of writing, I'd be delighted if you shot me a line here in the comments or on my Tumblr (fayet.tumblr). Feel free to hit me up there for any further information or if you have questions. 
> 
> Finally a massive thanks to LovelyRita1967 for her faithful typo witchering. She deserves many a kudo shower for her dedication. Thank you, Rita. 
> 
> Outside of the comment section and Tumblr the amazing DollfacedDreadnought/PeachTree cheered me on with all the understanding of someone who isn't really into a particular fandom but will stay ride or die with you anyway. She may or may not have saved Geralt from bleeding to death in the basement, so we all owe her. A lot, actually. 
> 
> You might have noticed the chapter count went up (again!) - you participated in my little poll enthusiastically, so while we're technically saying goodbye to our story here we'll have one last hurrah soon. I will edit the promised "Chapter 0" and the two tiny snippets in the next weeks and post them as Chapter 16, and then, only then, it will be over for good. Can you believe it? I barely can. What a ride!
> 
> And in case you intend to print this out (this is not my delusions of grandeur speaking, it did get mentioned in the comments more than once!) I'd recommend you wait for a few more weeks until I'm done with the first round of "fic maintenance" and have erased some minor problems with paragraph size, spacing and found some final typos. 
> 
> Also can we now please all go and make #TeamEskel happen? Cool. Thanks.
> 
> Wait, before you go: Stillmadaboutpetra actually sat down and wrote[The Siren Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26466493), and you all need to go and have a look beause it's absolutely epic and Eskel would approve.


	16. Bonus: I found you laughing under trees / You kissed me out of sound

**16.1.**

**I found you laughing under trees  
**

The evening was a raucous success. They had put up a little stage on the edge of the town, surrounded by benches and stalls where drinks and food could be purchased. Rows of colourful little flags were strung between trees, and as night fell coloured paper lanterns appeared. The atmosphere was one of delighted abandon, men, women and children celebrating happily that summer had come, that they were alive, and that life could be this good.

And there couldn't be a celebration without music, of course. Summer was a good time for travelling bards, something Jaskier had known for decades. It was always easy to figure out when and where a festivity would be held, and to arrive just on time to get himself hired. He'd been bouncing around the area for weeks doing nothing but this, and he enjoyed the opportunities of having the whole stage to himself, people eager to listen, to sing along, to dance.

So he wasn't surprised that he had easily captured the attention of the merry festival goers, and as the day turned into night, managed to ensnare them in the web his voice and lute could so easily weave. He had been playing for what felt like at least an hour, fuelled by a never ending parade of tankards with ale and wine offerings being brought his way, flirted happily with all the people dancing in front of the stage, and fulfilled wishes for specific songs as they were shouted to him, the single cornflower one of the girls had given him tucked behind his ear.

These were the nights that reminded him why he was a travelling bard for most of the year and not a sedentary professor tucked away in Oxenfurt. Teaching for the entire spring semester had been nice but enough for a while, and he had hightailed it out of his college town as quickly as possible after the semester had ended. Strutting the stage in his colourful finery and watching the merry crowd eat out of his metaphorical hands was exactly what he had yearned to do all these spring month stuck inside boring auditoriums, with the summer breeze he had missed so much in his hair and the scent of the dry grass and flowers from the nearby meadows in his nose.

Festivals required raucous music, and he wasn't surprised that it was mostly heroic tales his enthusiastic audience wanted to hear. But he had plenty to offer of those, and the crowd joined in the chorus of stories about monsters being slain and battlefields traversed.

Dusk was settling already when he spotted the figure of a tall man with a sword on his back moving along the outskirts of the festival, weaving his way through the crowds of merrymakers, watching the performance on the stage and listening to the music. He looked strange amongst the revellers, even without armour dressed not for dancing but battle, the only openly armed man amongst the crowd of relaxed peasants. Jaskier had expected him, of course. He had seen the papers posted to trees on the roads between villages, and he had listened to the talk in the taverns. There had been a fiend in the woods nearby, a creature having travelled into inhabited areas from the large forests bordering on this little region with its quaint villages, terrorising everyone who came too close to the woods, on one occasion even moving into the settlements and bringing death and destruction. There had been an offer, a handsome reward, and it had only been a matter of time until someone would come through the area and take them up on it.

Jaskier had also already heard the tales of the epic battle that ensued and left the creature dead, its ugly head dragged into the village that had offered the reward and the money handed over. The head of the fiend apparently was now placed on a stake in the middle of the village, a symbol of man triumphing over beast. Tavern talk had spun the battle into either the most manly feat ever committed or something any fool with a sword could have done, depending on who was talking, and Jaskier had listened and nodded to whatever they said while knowing perfectly well that neither version was completely right and that in the end it had just been a job, albeit one done properly and by a professional.

And of course Jaskier had expected to stumble over the witcher in question sometime, if only because now Jaskier was some sort of a celebrity himself and news that he'd play tended to travel fast, drawing in crowds from nearby villages, people who knew the music would be good if that particular bard was around.

So Jaskier wasn't surprised that the witcher had turned up eventually, that he was moving around the festival listening to the music, still armed as it became a witcher but otherwise obviously unbothered by the crowds of humans, enjoying the atmosphere of the summer night. Around him the usual reactions occurred, people either staring or trying pointedly not to stare, ignoring him while still casting sideways glances. But the fiend was still fresh in their minds, and they weren't hostile nor causing any trouble, leaving him be to get himself a drink and settle somewhere on a bench far away from the stage. He sat down comfortably, leaning back to listen to Jaskier's performance, and when their eyes locked briefly across the crowd and Jaskier tipped his head ever so slightly Eskel raised his tankard and toasted him from afar.

It was all Jaskier needed to blend the current song into a raucous rendition of the siren song that had by now garnered quite a reputation, and the crowd joined into the chorus with enthusiasm, laughing at the success of the unnamed witcher, shouting some of the more lewd puns with abandon. Afterwards Jaskier took a deep bow, blowing kisses at the swooning ladies in front of the stage.

"Ladies, and good Sirs, I shall now take a moment and will be back with you in an instant after wetting my throat with some of your delicious ale. Keep on the merry dancing, and later we shall continue."

The ladies clapped, the Sirs in question that were more lads than gentlemen hollered, and Jaskier jumped down from the stage, lute securely held by the strap. Behind him the local fiddler took over quickly, and while Jaskier weaved his way through the crowd the dancers formed a circle and picked up one of the local round dances, going around fast and faster, laughing and stumbling over each other.

Making his way to the edge of the festival Jaskier picked up a fresh tankard of ale from one of the stalls, not even having to pay with the lady standing behind the counter batting her eyelashes at him and blushing at his wink when he offered her the cornflower from behind his ear in lieu of coin. Seconds later he sank down on the bench next to Eskel, deposited his lute next to him and held out his tankard. Without missing a beat Eskel smashed his own tankard against it, and they drank. Putting the half-empty tankard down again Jaskier wiped foam off his face and gave Eskel a good once-over, just to see if he was mostly intact, a habit hard to shake.

"Good to see you, Eskel. I didn't know you were in the area, thought you were up further north. Did the fiend pay well?"

Eskel nodded, grinning just a little, his amber eyes sparkling in the low light of the paper lanterns. He looked good, relaxed, properly fed and mostly unhurt besides a long, bloodied but already healing scratch that ran down the side of his neck and all the way down his chest where it vanished under the burgundy shirt that he kept unlaced, silver wolf's head sitting on bare skin. It was befitting for the festival where all the strong young men kept their shirts just a little too open for the ladies to enjoy the view, who in return hiked their skirts up just a bit while dancing.

"Indeed it did, unusually so. How's the playing going along?"

Leaning back Jaskier stretched his legs and flexed his fingers.

"Judge for yourself."

In front of them the ring of dancers changed directions, some stumbling over each other during the wild manoeuvre, laughing while shouting commands.

"A success, then. I enjoyed listening."

Turning on the bench towards him Jaskier smiled, picking up his tankard again and drank. The ale was cool and surprisingly good, just like the food earlier had been. They knew how to live in these villages, going with the seasons and taking what was good. Life was too short to make it miserable, and summers too precious, a philosophy Jaskier could subscribe to himself.

"Of course, you just like to hear your song. It's become quite famous, have you noticed?"

Snorting Eskel nodded, his eyes still on the crowd.

"Hard not to. I've always mocked Geralt for complaining, now I get it. It's all good, nobody knows it's me, but I understand it's strange when people can connect you to the songs."

Raising an eyebrow Jaskier shook his head.

"Ungrateful bastards, the entire lot of you."

Eskel laughed, and took another drink from his tankard.

"Wouldn't phrase it that way, Songbird. We're just used to keeping our heads low, you know. Makes for safer travelling sometimes."

And Jaskier knew what he meant, precisely so, having seen the scars the hatred had left on Geralt's body and knowing fully well that Eskel bore similar marks.

"But tonight's good?"

Tilting his head back a little Eskel looked up to the line of paper lanterns strung across the festival grounds, swaying softly in the warm summer breeze.

"The ale is for sure, and I hope the music continues to be pleasant. That, however, is not up to me to decide."

He raised his tankard to Jaskier and drank, and Jaskier could only shake his head at the insolence.

"Impossible, all of you. How long are you staying?"

Eskel took a minute to enjoy his ale and then set his tankard down shrugging.

"Departing tomorrow. Path is calling."

Of course, a witcher didn't stay long in one place. Neither did a bard, usually, and tomorrow the festival would be over.

"Going through the forest by any chance? I want to go south, but considering a fiend just marched out of that forest I was reluctant to cross it."

Raising the one eyebrow he could still move Eskel nodded.

"Wise of you. I hadn't planned to, but I guess I could go that way. You need an escort?"

Grinning Jaskier drank the last sip of his ale before putting his empty tankard down onto the table, leaving it to be collected by the busboys running around making a little pocket money working.

"You're a darling. I'll meet you tomorrow morning. Now, about that music - "

Jaskier didn't finish his sentence, instead picking up the lute from the bench next to him and setting to move. But before he did he leant over and kissed Eskel on the cheek, being on his feet immediately afterwards and strutting through the crowd back towards the stage. Behind him he could hear Eskel laugh just a little at his cocksureness. But Jaskier was no fool and almost always had good reasons for what he was doing. He'd just need to wait a while until this specific gesture would pay off, but he was patient and had time. And besides that leaning close to Eskel had been useful, because Jaskier by now knew enough about wolf witchers to notice the covert inhale, Eskel picking apart the scents around and on Jaskier, the question he had not asked and Jaskier had not volunteered to answer.

Minutes later Jaskier was back on the stage and picked up right where he had left. Night had fallen and the stars were up in the sky, barely visible on the dark blue above the canopy of the trees rising behind the stage. The audience hollered their approval at his reappearance and he bowed with a flourish, launching into the next song before he had properly straightened his back, the fiddler behind him joining him as he recognised the familiar tune.

Playing and singing Jaskier strut his way across the stage, watching the dancers pair up and spin around, slow now and faster then, following the ebb and swell of the music. He was two songs in when his little plan paid off, the actual reason why he had kissed Eskel in the middle of a crowd of humans slightly wary of him. He had strolled over to the stands to get himself a second tankard of ale, and the lady selling them had bravely smiled at him only to blush a little when Eskel grinned right back at her. Jaskier watched him settle on a bench again and lean back comfortably for a moment before one of the villagers joined him.

Jaskier had noticed the blacksmith right away. There was nothing particularly uncommon about a village having a blacksmith, but this one was special in a few interesting ways. One of them was the fact that she was a woman, unusually tall with slightly darker skin, long black hair in loose curls on her shoulders, wearing a plain dress, the only decoration a pair of dark red silk ribbons in her hair. She moved amongst the other villagers with confidence and grace, but she hadn't joined the dancers. Her eyes had been on Eskel ever since he had appeared at the festival, and Jaskier - who had an eye for situations like this - had taken note of her interest in the witcher and easily assumed that she wasn't only professionally interested in the blades he carried. But she hadn't dared to approach him, not before Jaskier had sat down and proved that one could touch a witcher and survive.

Now she weaved her way through the crowd and without waiting for an invitation sat down next on the bench to Eskel, who had of course long noticed her and now turned to her calmly with half a smile and a questioning eyebrow. For a moment Jaskier had to focus on the music again, turning towards the fiddler to arrange for the next song and then launch into that. When he looked back the blacksmith held a long dagger in her hand and Eskel was admiring the blade with all the knowledge of a real connoisseur, and Jaskier didn't need to look again to know he'd be praising the work and they'd be talking shop any minute now before, well, maybe picking up other topics or activities.

Of course Jaskier was right, as he always was in such situations. His final set was halfway over when Eskel got up and the blacksmith promptly stood up as well, and together they left the festival grounds towards the large tent, maybe to get something to eat or to find a more private space, like so many couples leaving the main area in front of the stage had done before them. Grinning a little to himself Jaskier focused on the dancers again, their spinning and twirling, and blew a kiss towards a particularly pretty blonde lady who giggled and turned back to her dance partner.

The festival lasted until very late in the night and Jaskier didn't get much sleep even after that. But the next morning he was up and about surprisingly on time, knowing that witchers liked to travel early and assuming that Eskel was no different than Geralt in that regard.

He was right. Jaskier was barely out of the tavern he had been put up in and waved his goodbyes to the daughter of the owner cleaning the bar counter when he noticed Eskel's mare tied up right next to Biel, already kitted out to ride. Eskel himself was leaning next to his horse against the wall, armoured and armed as it became a witcher, looking for all the world fresh and awake, his head tipped back against the warm stones behind him enjoying the sun.

Saluting Jaskier easily he only hummed a reply to his greeting and then watched him wander around readying Biel at a pace that would have driven Geralt into mild exasperation and only made Eskel raise an eyebrow. Finally everything was settled and both mounted their horses, nudging them forward, Jaskier's lute securely over his shoulders. In a slow and steady pace they turned down the main road, Jaskier returning greetings and well-wishes for his journey to the villagers, blowing kisses to young girls waving at him from the gardens they were tending to. Eskel watched him with amusement in his eyes, but they didn't pass the smithy on their way out and Jaskier assumed he had already bid his acquaintance goodbye.

Then they were out of the village and onto the main road leading through the landscape of cornfields, soft hills filled with golden beauty the gentle wind was brushing through.

"Had a good night?"

Eskel tilted his head a little, ever so slightly smirking.

"Indeed."

They were riding next to each other, taking up the entire road since there was no traffic, and Jaskier cast a glance at him from the side. He looked relaxed, fire eyes sparkling with content, just like a man should after spending his night with amorous adventures. Casting a glance over his armour Jaskier suddenly noticed that one of the many leather strings holding the pieces together had been replaced by dark red silk, and Jaskier could do nothing but burst into laughter while reaching over and prodding the unusual adornment on Eskel's armour with his index finger before withdrawing his hand.

"A token of love! I was sure she'd give you a dagger, but I might have been misled there."

Eskel grinned a little, obviously enjoying the situation.

"Actually bought one. Excellent work, I've rarely seen a blade that well balanced. She sharpened my steel sword this morning, too."

Snorting Jaskier had to shake his head.

"I'm sure she sharpened your sword alright, my friend. Really, how you and Geralt are related, it will remain a mystery to me for all eternity."

There was something wistful in Eskel's smile for a moment before it vanished again.

"You have no idea. So you haven't seen my brother lately?"

Eskel already knew the answer to the question, of course, so there was nothing Jaskier could do but shake his head, his heart stumbling just a little, something he knew Eskel easily picked up on.

"No. He wanted to drop by Oxenfurt in spring, but he never showed up."

Shooting him a sympathetic look Eskel nodded.

"Probably got himself entangled into this or that affair somewhere on the path. Don't worry, Songbird. He'll show up somewhere soon enough."

Jaskier exhaled carefully and smiled, knowing fully well that Eskel was sharing the same fears that sometimes kept Jaskier awake at night, but had a more realistic outlook on the world and experiences of decades and decades to look back upon, especially when it came to Geralt and when and in what condition he'd reappear from a year on the path.

"Sure. And I hope he has a good explanation for his delay, and a few good stories to tell. That being said, how's the year been with you? Are you going to win the Secret Witcher League again this year? How much does the fiend count?"

Smiling a little and shaking his head Eskel reached up to pluck a leaf from a tree they were passing by under. Turning it around in his free hand while holding the reins with the other he looked at the bright green spot of colour and then left it to flutter away on the breeze.

"Don't you ever dare to write a song about that. Can we not keep a single secret from you?"

Watching the leaf drift away Jaskier turned in his saddle a bit and then smiled at him.

"None at all. And if you don't tell me now I'll pester you for all of the three days it'll take us to cross the forest, and after we've parted ways again I'll send you letters to pester you some more. And you can't even strangle me quietly at night, because Geralt would never forgive you."

Eskel loosened his grip on the reins a little, letting his mare stretch her neck a bit.

"I could make it look like an accident."

Jaskier laughed.

"You could, my dear, you could. But would anyone believe you?"

Sighing dramatically Eskel shook his head.

"How again does my brother put up with you?"

A swallow sailed across their heads in a spectacular flight pattern, startled from the sounds of their voices and the horses from where it had rested before in one of the trees standing to their left.

"You know, we do all sorts of idiotic things for love."

Tracking the flight of the elegant bird in the brilliant summer sky with the mild interest of a predator currently not on the hunt Eskel didn't look back at Jaskier. But his face went soft for a moment, and Jaskier knew he agreed with him and his silly wisdom that was just deep enough to be alright for a summer morning on the road towards a monster infested forest and, hopefully, a lot of very good new stories.

**###**

**16.2.**

**You kissed me out of sound**

Jaskier was barely through the gates when he got stuck in the crowd. Annoyed at the sudden commotion he led Biel off to the sides, hoping the small conglomeration of people wouldn't upset his slightly nervous horse more than it had already. But there wasn't much space, behind him the large gates to the town of Wolmirstedt and the wooden palisades enclosing the settlement, and in front of him already the moat, a large wooden bridge leading over the small river they had directed around Wolmirstedt for protection.

It was that bridge Jaskier wanted to cross and couldn't courtesy of it being cordoned off, and he remained stuck amongst other travellers and locals trying to leave the town, barely fitting into the tight space with the large merchant cart that had just arrived and wanted to pass the gates toward the weekly market.

But nobody could move, not with two men from the town's guard herding them away, pushing them towards the side. The reason for all this commotion was clearly visible already, a battalion of soldiers marching up across the bridge, and Jaskier could do nothing but sigh to himself and yield, making way and trying to keep Biel as calm as possible.

Holding the reins and patting his horses' long neck he idly observed the soldiers. It wasn't a large battalion, roughly forty men marching, all dressed in lightweight travel armour and some carrying banners with the colours of Cintra, blue and gold fluttering in the light wind of the late September day. They marched in perfect rhythm but just enough out of synch not to set the structure of the bridge into harsh movements, obviously perfectly drilled. On their backs they carried longbows and quivers with arrows, feathers dipped in blue and gold with an attention to detail Jaskier could appreciate. They wore no swords but probably had daggers, and Jaskier realised that this had to be a formation of elite soldiers, marching down towards Cintra after probably having been trained somewhere up further up north, maybe within one of the military cooperation schemes Cintra kept with Kerack.

Everything seemed fairly normal, but the crowd around Jaskier was all aflutter with gossip as soon as the battalion appeared, and it had nothing to do with the Cintran flags waving in the air and everything with the long stick one soldier marching in the first row carried with the head of a nekker impaled on it, dried and gruesome, with a couple of arrows sticking in the skull. Its eyes had been gouged out, and the hollow cavities in the skull stared at whomever the soldiers were marching towards like a warning hard to overlook.

Jaskier shivered a little at the sight and wondered how a battalion of elite archers had come to possess a nekker head, given soldiers weren't usually the type of hunters tackling these small but dangerous creatures.

He got his answer when the first row of soldiers had reached the gatehouse and the entire battalion stopped, moving a single step backwards like one man. They parted like the sea, two taking a step to the left and two to the right, turning so they were facing the corridor they created with the manoeuvre. Unlike many men Jaskier wasn't enamoured by military endeavours, had never fancied himself a brave knight wearing some idiot lordling's colours, but even he could appreciate the perfect drill in their smooth movements, the accurate steps and sudden silence as they stood motionlessly.

Through the thus created perfect path past their rows of static bodies moved their commander, high on horseback, dressed a little bit more elegantly and lavishly than the archers, albeit wearing the same type of leather armour that was lightweight and easy to travel in. Across his shoulders a blue cloak was draped, fastened with a complicated system, making him appear larger and broader even, cleverly leaving room for the impressive quiver and bow on his back that he probably never used and only carried as a sign of his position and military rank. His dark hair was brushed back, cut short but just long enough to show that it was still full and thick, a clear sign of virility on a man who had to be beyond the middle of his life. He observed the rows of soldiers he was moving through with the calm eye of someone taking inventory, pleased with what he saw, the perfect discipline of his men something he seemed to take for granted. There was a natural authority to him that seemed to come easy, helped along by the insignia of his profession, the colours of Cintra he was wearing proudly.

And yet he wasn't the focus of everybody's attention, the crowd's hungry eyes gliding over him and taking in his military pride without stopping, far more interested in his company, or maybe rather escort. The path the soldiers had created on the bridge was broad enough for two horses, leaving space for a mare to trod alongside the commander's black stallion, respectfully held back just a little, her head on a line with the forehand of the war horse next to her.

Soldiers didn't ride mares, and especially not chestnut coloured ones like this one was, white stripe down the long nose, long ears comfortably and curiously turned forward, calm and relaxed even in the cramped space she was traversing. And still she looked out of place, almost as much as her owner, dressed in shades of black, dark leather armour and practical breeches, unobtrusive and yet eye-catching amongst the sea of blue and gold, curiously standing apart from the rows of men so clearly marked in their affiliation. Witchers didn't carry colours of their own, and yet Geralt seemed to have his own colour palette, the black of his armour and clothing against the silver of his hair, the metal of the wolf's head on his chest, the hilt of his silver sword visible above his shoulder.

It explained where the nekker head had come from, and Jaskier felt the grin spread over his face while the crowd started to whisper, the arrival of the elite archers easily becoming more exciting than it already was due to Geralt's presence.

"Step back, people! Make room for the commander!"

With murmured complaints the crowd stepped back a little and Jaskier inched closer to Biel, again petting his neck, noticing that his head was lifted now he had caught sight of the familiar shape of Roach, snorting once. Gently rubbing his nose Jaskier grasped the reins a little tighter and turned again to watch the small procession, the commander having already reached the small space that had been cleared for him in front of the gates and elegantly sliding out of his saddle.

Geralt arrived seconds later and followed his example, brushing a gloved hand over Roach's neck. But he didn't follow the commander who was speaking to the town's guard while another man was hastily running to fetch the captain of the guard, instead waiting beside Roach calmly for whatever was going to happen. He cast an idle glance over the crowd and the crowd stared back, their whispering growing louder, discussions on whether this really was a witcher or not - you idiot, can't you see, he's got those cursed yellow eyes - , where he'd come from, why he was travelling with Cintran soldiers. Jaskier listened and knew that Geralt did, too, and that he understood everything they were saying. It ranged from the usual comments and slurs to wild speculations, and Jaskier could barely suppress a sigh.

But Geralt kept his usual stoic stance, giving no sign that he was listening to their discussions or that he indeed had picked up on Jaskier's presence. He simply cast another glance over the crowd and found nothing of interest there. But it was enough to silence them a least a little, a long glance out of amber eyes, vigilant but not threatened in the slightest. He turned back around when the commander beckoned him closer, dropping the reins and leaving Roach standing where she was, obediently waiting. Seeing him turn and walk over, Jaskier and the crowd got a good look at the sword sitting on his back, the black scabbard held together by leather straps into which a long arrow was tucked, blue and gold fletchings, snapped clearly in half.

For a moment Jaskier was taken aback and so was the crowd, but while the men and women around him immediately started to whisper again Jaskier understood what type of job Geralt had been hired for, and that for the moment it didn't include fighting at all. He might have looked battle-ready, but then he always did, and the silver sword so prominently displayed in a situation where it was almost entirely useless was nothing but pretty decoration. The commander had wanted a witcher, and a proper witcher he got, grim face and silver blade included.

The grin on Jaskier's face spread a little wider because he could imagine the internal monologue Geralt had probably been indulging in for the past hours or however long he had been travelling with these soldiers, the constant grumbling at the situation, probably hating the whole display and yet too tempted by what Jaskier assumed was easy money.

He was brought back to reality when he heard the commander raise his voice, now talking to what had to be the captain of the guard of the town of Wolmirstedt, a man roughly the same age as the commander but lacking his stature and colours.

"What do you mean, you are not allowing non-humans to enter Wolmirstedt and can't make an exception? I don't care about your petty little ordinances here, speaking on the authority of Queen Calanthe of Cintra - "

There was no room for protest, and yet Jaskier had to give it to the captain that he at least tried, even if he was defending one of those idiotic bigoted rules Jaskier hated and that had been the reason why he had decide to leave Wolmirstedt behind a little earlier than originally planned.

"The people of Wolmirstedt and the governing mayor have decided, Commander, and I am not in a position to simply revoke their decisions. You will have to speak to the mayor, my boy will run and fetch him. Oi, Mikahel!"

Staring at the captain, the commander seemed close to exercising his entire military power, the frown on his face deepening by the minute. The crowd around Jaskier was moving from foot to foot, whispering again, and nothing they were saying was benevolent.

Geralt, in the meantime, had been reading the large poster proclaiming the fact that he was not wanted in Wolmirstedt in capital letters. He seemed absorbed in the few words, but Jaskier noted the tilt of his head, giving away that he was still listening, assessing the situation. Then he turned to the commander, apparently completely unaffected.

"If I recall our contract correctly you hired me to escort you and your men to Wolmirstedt."

He wasn't speaking up, just loud enough for the commander to hear, but the crowd was leaning forward, curious to hear the witcher speak, gravely voice fitting his appearance. The commander turned his seething gaze from the slightly fidgeting captain to Geralt.

"Silence, Witcher. I will sort this out."

The crowd around Jaskier murmured their disapproval, and Jaskier felt his hands on Biel's reins tighten. Geralt only raised an eyebrow.

"That is your prerogative. It is mine to demand my pay and take my leave."

For a moment the commander looked surprised, and then displeased. But it seemed that indeed Geralt was right in his assessment of the contract, and the commander could not deny it. He turned around once more to stare the captain down, who was looking back with a new-found sense of determination and righteousness Jaskier found deplorable. Then he growled something under his breath and fully turned away and towards Geralt. A not very small leather pouch changed its owner covertly, vanishing from sight immediately in one of Geralt's pockets.

"So you really do not have any pride."

Geralt shrugged, already halfway turned towards Roach, keeping an eye on the still murmuring crowd.

"Commander, I'm not a man looking for trouble."

He said if off-handedly, halfway to the commander and halfway to the crowd, already reaching out for the reins. The Commander sneered a little, and shook his head.

"No, you're not much of a man indeed."

Had Geralt been a nobleman an insult like that would necessarily have ended in a duel, and for a brief moment Jaskier wondered if the commander knew it would not, that he could run his mouth like he would never dare to had a human warrior with a skillset Geralt possessed been in his place, someone whose blood could run hot and who had a name to defend. Like this Geralt only snorted, shook his head and easily got back into the saddle.

"I shall take your word for it."

He raised a hand and without bothering with a proper farewell picked up the reins, Roach dutifully performing an elegant manoeuvre betraying the fact that she, too, was more than she seemed on first glance. Falling into a slow gait she then set herself into motion over the bridge, through the archers still standing motionless, forming a forest of bodies Geralt had to move through to leave Wolmirstedt behind. He seemed relaxed at the prospect, not worried about the soldiers, calmly guiding Roach across the bridge past them. They had barely passed the first row where the archer holding the long stick with the nekker head on top stood when he suddenly lifted the stick and slammed it onto the ground once, a harsh sound that made Roach flick her ears in surprise.

As one man the archers came to attention, and as Geralt rode past their rows saluted him in flawless military fashion. He tilted his head in recognition of their farewell, and briefly Jaskier wondered what exactly he had done to deserve being honoured thus, not by the commander but the simple men, those who maybe had reservations towards a mutant but could admire a skilled fighter when they saw one, battle worn just like they were and yet still alive.

The commander stared down the line once, apparently not too amused but unwilling to do anything against his men's offer of a farewell, and turned back towards the captain, now negotiating only the entrance and accommodation for his men and himself. The archers waited until Geralt was over the bridge and on the road leading away from Wolmirstedt, and then without being prompted to closed ranks, now blocking the bridge entirely.

With Geralt out of sight, the focus of the crowd waiting flitted away from the archers as well, and they started to talk amongst themselves of other issues, chatting amicably or waiting in silence for the soldiers to make way for them so they could finally move on with their day. Jaskier kept Biel's reins firmly in hand, nervously staring down the bridge, trying to catch a glimpse of Geralt's retreating back although the archers were blocking his view. He was fairly certain that Geralt had noticed his presence and would wait for him somewhere down the road so they could catch up, but now that he knew their meeting was so close Jaskier was nervous, fidgeting, barely able to stand still and wait until the archers were finally given free access to Wolmirstedt.

It took another half an hour until the bridge was free again and Jaskier could pass, Biel in tow. They crossed the bridge and turned onto the road, and it took a little while until he felt Biel to be relaxed enough to climb back into the saddle. There was plenty of traffic on the road, and Jaskier passed by crowds of pilgrims and merchants, wandering tradespeople, peasants on their way to the market in Wolmirstedt with the wares, carts piled high with fresh produce from the fields and farms nearby. Wolmirstedt lay in an area with rich soil and good harvests, and since it was the largest market town within many miles it naturally drew the sellers and buyers in, resulting in steady traffic on the roads. On and on Jaskier rode, and the further away he got from Wolmirstedt the more his heart sank.

There was no sign of Geralt, nothing to indicate where he could have gone to. For almost half an hour Jaskier followed the trade route, his spirits sinking further and further. How could they have missed this chance to meet each other, when they had been so close? With almost comical desperation Jaskier rode on, feeling a little stupid at his own rising sadness.

And then he reached a fork in the road where a side road split off, leading towards a few sad villages in the middle of nowhere and beyond, barely a road and almost just a trail, slightly overgrown with grass. Stopping Biel Jaskier looked down the side road, how it became smaller and smaller, trees standing to the side with their branches swaying in the still mild breeze. It was empty and apparently hadn't been used a lot in the past days, showing no cart tracks or other marks of frequent travel. Turning back he observed the main road, broad and dusty, carts rolling and people marching next to each other, their constant murmuring and the sound of hooves on the dry dirt.

Minutes later Biel was happily trodding over the almost overgrown trail, and Jaskier had to lean low to avoid branches of trees, making sure the lute on his back didn't accidentally get stuck somewhere. He was surrounded by bird song now, rustling of leaves, leaving civilisation behind him, its noise vanishing as the trade road fell away behind him. The trail wound around a few bends, past meadows where the wildflowers of a late summer were still in bloom, and somewhere in the distance Jaskier thought he heard running water.

The sound came closer as he rounded another bend in the road and saw an open meadow to the left, apple trees standing there, heavily laden with fruit, their branches hanging low. It wasn't a kept orchard tended to by humans but a mere accidental collection of trees, and Jaskier saw cherry trees with their fruit already taken by the birds amongst the apple trees. The grass was standing high, having never been cut, flowers growing amongst it. It made the perfect place to rest for a moment and let a horse graze, and standing in the middle of the meadow with her nose buried deep in the grass Roach looked incredibly content at the entire situation, despite the fact that she was still carrying the saddle and all of Geralt's bags, his silver sword once more well-hidden amongst them.

Stopping Biel on the trail Jaskier couldn't help but exhale, anxiety suddenly falling away and making room for warmth slowly spreading through him. He slid out of the saddle easily, leading Biel by the reins towards Roach, standing nearly up to his thighs in the high grass. Biel was ecstatic at the offered meal but even happier to see Roach, and seconds later they were standing side by side, tearing grass and wildflowers from the meadow eagerly.

And still there was no sign of Geralt. Patting Biel's neck Jaskier turned around once, trying to see where he had gone to. He had to be close, and squinting in the bright daylight Jaskier carefully observed his surroundings.

He didn't have to wonder for long, a creaking sound from one of the larger apple trees alerting him. The tree was old and gnarly, its branches hanging so low they almost touched the ground. Walking around Jaskier found an opening and stepped into the shadow created by the leaves and fruit, the air sweet with the smell of the already overripe apples. Geralt sat up high comfortably on one of the strong branches that was thick enough to carry his considerable weight, leant against the trunk of the tree with his feet dangling in the air and chewing on an apple.

"A witcher in a tree! You make a strange bird up there, do you know that?"

Hands on his hips Jaskier looked up, and couldn't help but smile. Looking down Geralt raised an eyebrow, and then threw the second apple he was holding down. Jaskier caught it easily and looked at it, perfectly round and with tempting red cheeks.

"You took longer than I thought you would. Are you coming up or should I come down?"

Biting into the apple Jaskier shrugged, quickly taking inventory of the branches leading up to Geralt's perch.

"Come down. The branch looks sturdy, but I don't want to risk breaking my fragile human bones when something cracks."

The apple was crisp and tangy, refreshing and perfectly ripe. Chewing Jaskier looked up just in time to see Geralt take the final few bites of his own apple, eating the entire thing until nothing but the stem remained, which he promptly threw away. Then he reached up, found another branch to hold onto and brought his feet up under him. Seconds later he jumped, barely missing another branch on his way down, landing next to Jaskier on the ground.

Shaking his head Jaskier watched him straighten again from the slight crouch he had needed to cushion the landing, and wiped a little of the juice from the apple from his own lips.

"I won't ask you if you're alright, if you can jump around like this you're perfectly fine."

Smirking just a little Geralt raised an eyebrow.

"You seem to be doing rather well yourself."

Sputtering with protest at the tone of voice Jaskier tried to cross his arms in front of his chest but found himself hopelessly drawn in, dropping the half-eaten apple and thinking for just a second that it was a waste of a perfectly good piece of fruit. But his hands were busy otherwise, fingers sticky with apple juice reaching for Geralt and drawing him close. He left traces of it on Geralt's neck and in his hair, not bothering in the slightest at the low growl of protest as he closed the distance between them. The heavy branches of the tree around them were like a curtain of fruit and leaves, keeping the world outside at bay while they kissed in the cool shadow, the ground around them littered with fallen apples.

Half an hour later Geralt had led both of them towards the source of the flowing water Jaskier had noticed earlier, finding a fast running stream of fresh water. They rested on the banks of the small river and Jaskier dutifully sat on the sun warmed stones keeping watch over Geralt's weapons and the horses. It wasn't a difficult task and he had to give it to himself that he made an excellent sentinel, both blades just within reach while Geralt stood up to his hips in the water taking the chance to rid himself of the dirt from the last weeks of his journey.

"I can't believe you went without a bath that long. You have no standards, you brute."

Taking off his own shoes and stretching his long legs Jaskier dipped his toes into the water and shuddered at the icy temperatures of the quick flowing stream. Geralt, completely unbothered, splashed water into his face and rubbed it vigorously.

"And yet you seemed quite eager to get close to me just now."

Sputtering Jaskier pulled his foot back and rubbed at his wet toes.

"I'd never get to kiss you at all otherwise! I have to make do with what I'm getting."

Snorting Geralt shook his head and promptly vanished for a moment, kneeling in the river and dipping under to wet his hair. He appeared moments later and held a hand out for the soap, which Jaskier found rummaging through his bags and threw his way. Geralt caught it easily out of the air without even looking and started to scrub it into his hair, for a moment focused on that task.

It left Jaskier to cease their bantering as well and instead admire the view of Geralt standing in the glittering and fast flowing river, droplets of water running down his naked body. It was the familiar view of marks and scars scattered all over him, but there were no semi-healed wounds or fresh scars, and Jaskier noticed to his relief that apparently he hadn't fought anything too terrible in a while and besides even looked surprisingly well-fed.

Vanishing under the river's surface again to wash the soap out of his hair Geralt disappeared shortly, and when he resurfaced remained on his knees, drifting in the water just a little, eyes closed contently. Not wanting to disturb his peace Jaskier looked around for a moment, listening to Biel and Roach snorting behind them where they were standing next to each other. His gaze wandered over the trees on the other side of the river bank and then down at Geralt's swords next to him. The arrow with its blue and gold fletchings was still stuck in the scabbard of his silver blade and Jaskier touched the soft feathers pensively, feeling their give under his fingertips.

The splashing of water alerted Jaskier to the fact that Geralt was slowly making his way out of the river, and minutes later he sat next to Jaskier, halfway dried and halfway dressed, shirt still off and wet hair dripping all over Jaskier, who was trying to comb it out without pulling on it too much.

"So tell me how you ended up riding escort for an entire battalion of cintran elite archers."

Geralt sighed, dropping his shoulders a little, and Jaskier wondered whether it was because of the mention of the soldiers or the steady tug of the comb in his hair. Pressing a kiss to Geralt's still wet right shoulder Jaskier smelt the river water on his skin, resisting the temptation to taste it. They'd have time for these things later, hopefully. Now he was still curious.

"There's not much to tell. Met them a month ago, up in Kerack. They were on their way towards Cintra crossing Brugge and hesitant to move close to Brokilon, for obvious reasons. It was good money, guiding them through the forests in Brugge and making sure they wouldn't accidentally wander off into Brokilon and get killed there."

Snorting Jaskier pushed the comb down through the heavy silver white mess one last time and then shook the water off it, rubbing it dry on his breeches so the wood wouldn't swell with the moisture.

"Sounds easy enough. How did the nekker's head end up on a stick, though?"

The noise Geralt made was somewhere between a growl and a sigh, and Jaskier repacked the comb already knowing it was a good story.

"The forests in Brugge are usually mostly clean, but apparently a new colony of nekkers has settled there. I'd heard about it and warned the archers, and promptly they decided to go monster hunting and practise their target skills."

Rolling his eyes Geralt reached behind him and twisted his hair to drain the last water from it before letting it fall down again, sticking to the skin of his neck and upper shoulders.

"And did they succeed?"

Jaskier couldn't imagine it. Monster hunting was very different from battlefield fighting, and as good as those cintran archers probably were there was a reason why monsters were generally left to witchers, why witchers had been created in the first place.

"Of course not. It was near carnage and they had to withdraw, a few of them injured. So I went into the woods that night to clean out the nest, took barely three hours."

Tilting his head to the side until the bones of his neck popped audibly Geralt seemed unimpressed by both the performance of the archers and the resulting meeting with the nekkers.

"But there were arrows in that head?"

Remembering the eyeless sockets in the skull of the nekker, Jaskier wrinkled his nose, having no sense for that specific type of hunting trophy.

"They were put in after the nekker was dead. The commander had wanted a head, so I brought him one. He also paid me a hefty price to keep the entire story to myself."

It was very clear what Geralt thought of that specific detail, but Jaskier could barely suppress a groan.

"So I can't tell anyone, what a pity! Such a good story, one witcher succeeding where an entire battalion of elite soldiers fails."

Humming a reply Geralt left his gaze to wander over the quick flowing river that kept on murmuring the background noise to their conversation. Jaskier patted the scabbard on the grass next to him.

"And the arrow? Where does that come from?"

Geralt's gaze snapped back to Jaskier, and for a moment his face darkened a little. Then he sighed.

"You know how soldiers are. They were, well." He paused for a moment, then shrugged. "They were curious about me. Hadn't met a witcher before, apparently."

He didn't sound pleased, and Jaskier understood. Soldiers didn't like men who fought with swords for different reasons then they did. Mercenaries, sellswords, all of them weren't particularly popular amongst military men. Witchers were no exception, with all their rumoured prowess and rather uncommon skillset.

"Did they pester you to prove you can really pick an arrow out of the air until you showed them?"

It seemed like a potentially fun scenario, but Geralt tilted his head a little and frowned.

"No, they just shot at me to see if they'd manage to hit me."

The smile froze on Jaskier's lips, but really, what had he expected?

"Sweet Melitele, why do they always have to do that?"

Geralt shrugged and turned back to looking at the river, leaving Jaskier to finally realise why Geralt hadn't taken the time to properly bath in the past weeks, why undressing and shedding his weapons had probably not been an option for him if he didn't want anyone to take advantage of the situation.

"It got better afterwards and they were impressed after their failure in dealing with the nekkers, but still. I can't say I'm not relieved to be rid of them. A month travelling with humans, sharing camp, it was a bit much."

He briefly looked at Jaskier, realising what he had said, but Jaskier understood.

"I'm glad to hear I don't count as human anymore. Was the money good, at least?"

Nodding Geralt leant back, propped up by his elbows, stretching his legs with still naked feet, the medallion and silver chain glittering on his chest. For a brief moment Jaskier focused on the scars winding around Geralt's left side, remains of the injuries the spectre fight had left him with that had healed into clean lines, a testament to Jaskier's craftsmanship with needle and thread.

"It was, otherwise I wouldn't have taken the risk."

Looking away and leaning back himself now Jaskier let his gaze wander up towards the blue sky.

"Did you fear they might kill you in your sleep?"

Geralt shrugged.

"Didn't sleep much. Cintran people tend to be less bigoted than other folks these days, but you never know what ideas they might get in their heads. Kill me, capture me, sell me, I don't know."

Shuddering at the wide variety of possible horrors Jaskier curled his lip, trying to disperse the threats with humour as he always did.

"Sell you? You'd make a terrible slave. Imagine you serving at a banquet, I just can't see it."

The sheer image was too strange, but the joke was light-heartedly enough and Geralt only shook his head.

"Kingdoms used to have arenas, always thirsty for fighters. Some still do, though Cintra has laws against slaves being used for such purposes. Still, it has happened in the past."

Witchers as gladiators! Of course, it made sense, and still was enough of a horrible fate that Jaskier didn't want to contemplate it.

"Melitele be praised that nothing happened. And now you have money and are free to go wherever you please, no more sad nekker heads on sticks."

Geralt nodded, exhaling once, tilting his head back and looking up through the canopy of trees above them just like Jaskier had done earlier.

"Indeed. I'm afraid this contract won't make for good song material for you, though."

Laughing Jaskier sat up again, turning to look down at Geralt.

"Ah, I have enough material. Imagine, I rode through a monster infested forest myself a few weeks ago, it was very exciting."

Snapping his head up and focusing on Jaskier Geralt looked far from pleased.

"On your own?"

Hearing the exasperation masking worry Jaskier bathed in it for a moment before grinning slyly.

"Not at all, I had the most charming company. Eskel sends his love."

Snorting Geralt allowed his head to drop back again, a hint of a smile on his lips for a moment.

"I see I'm not the only one riding as an escort for humans these days. Did you pay him?"

Clicking his tongue Jaskier poked Geralt's side to punish him for the insolent comparison, watching his abdominal muscles contract under the slight assault and enjoying the view.

"Should I have? Don't worry, we had the most enjoyable time together and were reluctant to part ways. He travelled south towards Lyria, hunting in the mountains there."

Above them a bird landed in the branches and immediately took flight again when it noticed their presence, Geralt's eyes flickering towards the noise briefly before settling on Jaskier again.

"I'm glad to hear you both survived the journey. I can imagine his plight with your constant singing."

Looking slightly offended Jaskier stared at him, but noticed the faint lines of laughter around his amber eyes and softened immediately.

"He can tell you all about the next time you two meet. He seemed to be missing you a little."

Geralt only hummed a non-committal reply before he shook his head.

"Sounds a lot like Eskel. At least you were in safe company."

That Jaskier couldn't deny, and he eagerly shared a few anecdotes of the three days he had spent travelling with Eskel while they got up again. Geralt dressed while Jaskier talked, rearranged his armour and weapons and finally they left the flowing river behind, walking their horses towards the small road again. Tramping across another meadow they finally found the trail again, and Jaskier closed up to Geralt after having followed him and Roach for the moment.

"So where are you headed?"

Looking down the overgrown trail Geralt shrugged, having now fully slipped into his usual persona again, putting it on as easily as he returned his steel blade to its proper place on his back.

"I thought it would be good to slowly turn north, cross through Attree and Verden."

Jaskier supplied the missing links, the roads leading through Cidaris, Temeria, just barely brushing Redania, and Geralt would be back in Kaedwen just in time for winter.

"Verden is beautiful this time of the year."

Stirrup already in hand Geralt nodded, and then lightly swung himself into the saddle.

"Haven't been there in a while, there might be good work waiting."

Jaskier followed his example, easily settling on top of Biel and picking up the reins.

"And plenty of opportunities for me to sing. But wait a moment."

Pausing Geralt left Jaskier to guide Biel closer to Roach and reach out. Watching his every move with curiosity he did nothing to prevent him from tugging the broken arrow free from the scabbard of the silver sword that now sat amongst his saddlebags, looking at the pieces for a moment before throwing them away. With a raised eyebrow Geralt followed the short flight of the arrow's remains through the air before they fell down onto the meadow, vanishing in the high grass. When he looked back again Jaskier had already pulled the small ribbon of cerulean blue silk from his pockets, just the smallest piece of fabric, and leant over to tie it onto the straps of the scabbard. When he was done he looked at his work with satisfaction, the small piece of silk almost hidden amongst the many straps of black, just a little hint of colour, not obtrusive or too gaudy.

When he looked at Geralt again he was met with far less annoyance than he had expected.

"What is that about?"

Shrugging Jaskier leant forward a little, taking the opportunity to quickly kiss him before answering.

"Let's say I got some inspiration from Eskel."

Confused Geralt twisted his torso to look at the small piece of silk and then turned back.

"Do I want to know?"

Laughing Jaskier leant back and seated himself properly in his saddle.

"Absolutely not."

Then he nudged Biel forward, and Geralt sighed.

"As long as he doesn't talk you into any fisstech-fuelled adventures I should probably be glad."

Still grinning Jaskier hummed the chorus of the siren song under his breath instead of a reply. Roach obediently moved forward as Geralt shook his head and settled back, Biel falling into step next to them easily. Jaskier left the melody to fade away, in his mind already thinking ahead to this night's camp somewhere on a blooming meadow, the scent of the dry grass and lush trees, their small fire crackling, above them the stars and below them the warm earth. Turning slightly he looked at Geralt and realised that he was probably thinking of the same thing, amber eyes warm in the afternoon light despite all the black armour and impressive weapons, the silver white hair falling over his shoulders already dried by the still warm and pleasant autumn sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And when I found you laughing under trees, / The quail began to trill and flute away, / As far away as hands that reach for hands; / But, when it sang, you kissed me out of sound.” from James Wright (The Poetry of James Wright: First collection). 
> 
> Finally: the bonus material you voted to get. I warned you that it's pointless fluff, right?
> 
> The also mentioned "Chapter 0" is already online, called [Silent friend of many distances](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25092526). It became too long to be tagged onto this fic, so I posted it as a seperate ficlet. 
> 
> Thank you for the continous flow of comments, likes and subs, even though this fanfic is done now. I still very much enjoy reading all your thoughts and appreciate your input. 
> 
> There's also so many hidden gems in the comments! [Cymothoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymothoe/pseuds/Cymothoe), for example, wrote a poem on the scene where Geralt asks Jaskier to bury him and offers him to take his medallion, which is beautiful and can be found [here.](<a%20href=)
> 
> A complete illustratred version of this fic exists! Look[here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28961985) for Saeculorum's masterpiece.
> 
> Final thanks to [stillmadaboutpetra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra), who reminded me of promises that need to be kept and all that shit. 
> 
> So, this is it - 180k words, and we're finally, actually, really done. It was a ride. Good night, friends, and travel well.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fan art for Hibernating with Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671678) by [Bellefant (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Bellefant)
  * [Love's Worth Running To](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24123703) by [ruffboi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffboi/pseuds/ruffboi)
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  * [The Siren Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26466493) by [stillmadaboutpetra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra)
  * [Hibernating with Ghosts - Illustrations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28961985) by [saeculorum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saeculorum/pseuds/saeculorum)




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